Chocolate
by Damagoed
Summary: If the man smells that good, what does he taste like? Greg has something of the night about him. And Mycroft smells of chocolate. Also biting, and detectives and sex. Oh My!
1. Chapter 1

"It's the third one in two weeks." Dr. Anderson prodded the corpse with some distaste.

"Completely drained of blood?" Sherlock was so curious he forget to be offensive.

"Pretty much. Yes."

"How?" John was examining the corpse for puncture wounds around the major arteries. Anderson shrugged. There were no wounds. Anywhere.

"And I don't understand where all the blood has gone. I mean, how do you make off with nine pints of blood? Why would you make off with nine pints of blood?" Anderson looked genuinely distressed. John stood and patted his arm.

"What do we know about the other two?" Sherlock addressed no one in particular but expected an answer all the same. "What links these three men?"

"They're all men." Anderson was trying to be helpful for once. Failing miserably, but the thought was there. Sherlock ignored him.

"Right. Well that's something." John looked at the pale corpse. "All men."

"Get me the files. We'll be at Baker Street. Tell LeStrade. In fact where is he?"

"At the Yard." Anderson squeaked before hurrying from the scene in the general direction of vomit. It was a bit not good, John thought to himself. But then he'd seen worse.

"Idiot!" Sherlock said to no one in particular as he stalked off, leaving the drained body to be removed from the scene.

...

Greg smelt Sherlock before he heard him, or saw him A very particular smell. Not unpleasant. But surprisingly not the sensuous smell his exquisite outward appearance would lead the world to think he possessed. There was something faintly chemical about it. Kind of like an electrical smell, the sort you got from brand new computers. With a slight undertone of oranges. This was not the smell of his clothes or his aftershave or his soap. This was the smell of his blood.

Greg sniffed again. John Watson was with Sherlock. Now John's smell was completely different. He smelt sweeter. Like burnt toffee. With John there was something else though. A musky, animal smell. The smell of the warrior. The smell of carefully coiled danger. John didn't smell of jam and jumpers at all.

He took a deep breath and switched his face into neutral as the door opened.

"LeStrade!"

"Hi Greg!"

"Sherlock, John." Nice and neutral. Don't give anything away. Everyone else was easy to fool. But Sherlock was different. He noticed things.

It was the same old same old really. Sherlock wanted the files. On the two, now three men who had been found drained of blood. He didn't care if they were classified. He wanted the files. Did LeStrade want him on the case or not? etc. etc. John stood at the back trying to pretend he was embarrassed. Looking sympathetically at Greg. Sending silent apologies. And all Greg could sense through the haze of words was the thundering scent of John's excitement because the game was on again.

"Yeah look just go down to Records and get the files." Greg could not breathe for the overwhelming smell of blood in the air. He opened his window, leaning out into the soft glow of the night lit city. Gulping in the fumes from the cars like it was the purest mountain air.

"Are you okay Greg?" John was concerned and right behind him. It would be so easy to turn around and...

"Yeah. Feel a bit sick. Bad sandwich." He felt John's hand pat him on the shoulder. He heard the door open. Sherlock had gone.

"Best go after him. Never know what trouble he'll get into otherwise." John scurried out.

Greg let out the breath he had been holding and looked out of the window once more. A large sleek black car had just pulled up outside the yard. The window wound down a few inches. Greg took another lungful of pollution and suddenly found himself on the floor. Collapsed and gasping like he had been hit by a truck. He sniffed cautiously. The smell still lingered in the air. Stronger than all the scents of the city and all the other people in it. A smell of the richest, darkest chocolate. Not sweet or sickly. Just overwhelmingly sensuous, filling Greg up like a cocaine hit. He couldn't move. He could hardly think.

By the time he was able to regain his feet. The black car had gone.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the same car. He was sure of it. Circling the edge of the crime scene. The windows mercifully shut. Keeping the heady scent of the downfall of angels within its blacked out windows. The plates did not exist. Well at least not on the Police data base. And yet the car was there in plain sight.

"What does he want now?" John Watson, hopping impatiently from foot to foot looked over at the car. "Sherlock, tell him to stop stalking you. Us."

"That would mean talking to him John. You tell him." Sherlock had not even looked up from his prone position, too engrossed in an oily puddle to bother.

"Sorry, do you know who owns that car?" Greg smelt the coppery thought processes of Sherlock's head.

"No one of any importance."

"His brother." They spoke at the same time.

"Brother? Oh God there's two of them?" LeStrade's bad night was getting considerably worse. One hyper-intelligent lunatic who could blow his cover at any moment he could deal with. But two of them?

"If anything big brother is worse. He has the entire secret service to do his dirty work for him!" John said it quietly but Sherlock heard all the same.

"That's because he's too fat and lazy to do it himself. LeStrade you are looking for a Sushi Chef in his late thirties. Goodnight." Sherlock pushed himself off the floor and walked off in the opposite direction to the car, which in turn began to slowly creep along after him. Greg prayed silently that the doors and windows would remain shut. But he braced himself for the inevitable.

"Sherlock. Get in! Stop arseing about!" The door was flung open allowing the silky voice and the overwhelming chocolaty scent out.

Greg tried to breathe through his mouth. Which was worse. He could taste him now. Sherlock's nameless brother. He closed his eyes, feeling his entire being pooling in his groin, feeling his skin begin to itch as his desire for blood started ramping up. Desire for that blood. Just a taste. He concentrated very hard on not looking. Remaining in control. But he found his head being wrenched by unseen hands in the direction of the open door.

He saw the eyes looking out at him. Painfully burning bright blue in the dark leather interior. The faintest impression of pale skin and a coppery eyebrow. That was all he saw before he felt his legs giving out and his head smacked into the concrete.

He smelt chocolate when he swam back into consciousness. Cheap, sweet, mass produced chocolate. Someone was forcing him to eat a Mars Bar. Instinctively he spat it out. He knew it was John Watson kneeling down beside him.

"Greg, come on mate. That's it." The Chocolate burned as it slid down his throat. Its plastic smell mocking him like fake aftershave.

"What happened?" Like he didn't know.

"You have the lowest blood sugar I've ever seen." John was in full Doctor mode now. The animal smell replaced with a more delicate scent of damp forests. "You need to eat regular meals. And I'd like you to have some tests for diabetes as well. Just in case."

"Yeah. Fine." Greg knew he would be fine if he could just get home to his flat. To his fridge. To the blood stored there. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Gone with Mycroft."

"Mycroft?"

"The Brother." And now the object of his desires had a name.


	3. Chapter 3

Dark and quiet like a grave. Heavy blackout curtains at the windows and double insulated walls for sound proofing. And of course the air conditioning, keeping the smell of the city out whilst he slept. That was how Greg liked it. Of course it wasn't like in the films where the sun would turn him to dust. He was already dust. But the sun bothered him. Hurt his eyes. Under the carefully applied fake tan, he was milky white. Paler than Sherlock. He could go out in the day, but he preferred the night.

The night was quieter. Less people around. Less distraction. Fewer questions asked. Easier access to blood.

No. He'd never taken blood from anyone who didn't deserve it. He wasn't a monster. Or if he was he was a monster with morals. Sooner or later they would make the connection. Maybe even trace the dots back to him. The three. Now four drained bodies, because they would probably find the fourth one today, would eventually betray him. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock solved the puzzle. The cold cases. Each and every one of the drained men was a murderer. A murderer who thought they had got away with it. Until Greg had found them out.

In a way he told himself he was just doing his job. Making London safer. Catching murderers. But he had a nagging feeling at the back of his head that whilst he thought he was protecting the citizens of London from the things under the bed, he was actually a thing from under the bed.

And now there was this new problem. He looked up at the ceiling. Watching a fly struggling in a spiders web. No point in struggling, it only meant you got stuck faster. He could still taste the rich chocolate at the back of his tongue. Even the three pints of blood he had gulped down when he got home (murderer number three, tasted like cheap whisky and coal tar soap) had not drowned out the flavour of that brief gulp of Sherlock's big brother. Mycroft.

Mycroft Holmes.

And what kind of man was Mycroft Holmes? A big black car with anonymous number plates. A rich, well spoken voice. A pair of startling blue eyes. Pale skin like Sherlock's? Did he look like Sherlock? Sherlock said he was fat. But then Sherlock even made Greg look fat. And why did he smell like that? In all his years Greg had never smelt anything like it. Anything so alluring. Anything that made him lose his ability to function. Anything that, as he thought about it, gave him a hard-on that reached past his belly button. He reached a pale hand down and began to stroke himself. Picturing those blue eyes looking at him. Pale hands replacing his own. Breathing deeply and smelling the glorious scent. Biting down on his flesh. Blood spilling onto his lips.

"Mycroft!" Greg whispered into the darkness as he came. His last thought before he fell asleep: If the man smelt that good, what did he taste like?


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft Holmes was rudely awakened by his head smacking against his desk. He shook his head and looked at the date on the computer screen. It was Thursday. Thursday was definitely past his bedtime. A brief knock at the door and Anthea appeared with coffee and a plate of sandwiches. Bacon by the smell of them. Mycroft sighed inwardly, he wouldn't be surprised if she and Sherlock were not secretly in league with one another. Trying to sabotage his diet. He tried to remember when he last ate something. He prodded himself in his non-existent gut and resigned himself to a bite of sandwich.

Inevitably the moment he had his mouth full, his phone rang. Unable to swallow a whole sandwich in one go, he opted to spit it out onto the plate. He was very glad Sherlock was not there to pass comment.

"Mycroft Holmes." He listened briefly. Hung up and then brought his fist smashing down on the desk so hard that his coffee spilled most of itself into the saucer. Anthea immediately appeared with paper towels to clear up the mess.

"Bloody Sherlock." Another crash of fist on desk. "Anthea. Tell them to bring the car. We have to go to Scotland Yard. Again." Mycroft went to change his shirt, muttering something about skewering his brother to death as he went.

...

Unsurprisingly Sherlock was not the slightest bit apologetic when Mycroft arrived. He said it was perfectly reasonable to be moving Cadavers from St. Bart's to Baker Street in a taxi and it was all Inspector LeStrade's fault anyways. The Inspector it seems should have arranged for transport of the body and didn't. So Sherlock used his initiative. Mycroft signed the papers handed to him by a very white looking desk sergeant who had obviously never seen a security clearance as high as Mycrfot's before.

"This is absolutely the last time Sherlock."

"You said that the last time. And the time before that."

"I mean it this time."

"You said that too."

"Look you little pain in the arse..." Mycroft suddenly slammed his brother against the wall. Sherlock knew it was pointless to struggle. As much as he hated to admit it, his elder brother was not only bigger, but also considerably stronger. "I have had enough of this. The next time you fuck up I am going to leave you to rot in whatever cell they see fit to throw you in. Are we clear?" Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times Mycroft had used that word. Every time it was because of something Sherlock had done. Sherlock would have smiled smugly but for the fact he could feel his lips turning blue.

"Mycroft. You're choking me!" He rasped. But his brother's cold eyes just glared at him, a faint pink suffusing his pale cheeks.

"And?" There really was nothing in those Icy blue eyes to suggest their owner was currently throttling his baby brother.

"What in the name of hell is going on here?" Hands gripped Mycroft's shoulders and he released his grip on Sherlock.

"I'm merely strangling my brother. I thought you of all people would understand, Inspector." But Greg LeStrade did not respond. He merely crashed to the floor, unconscious.


	5. Chapter 5

He swam back to consciousness and nearly passed back into oblivion as his nose was assaulted by the combined scent of the Holmes Boys. Sherlock was close. Peering down. Curiosity more than concern etching around his eyes. Mycroft was further away. Leant against the wall, but his eyes were unfocussed. Looking off into some distant place. The same expression Sherlock got when he visited his "mind palace". Greg wondered what Mycroft would have. If Sherlock had a palace, Mycroft probably had a "mind lair" an "underground mind lair." He almost chuckled to himself, but he was trying not to breathe in.

"Oh Good. You're awake. You really have to stop passing out like that LeStrade. It's most disconcerting." Sherlock's cheekbones zoomed in to Greg's field of vision. He resisted the urge to smack him one. Strange. He never wanted to bite Sherlock. There was something very off putting about deductive reasoning. Greg suspected it would taste funny.

Greg turned his attention back to the other Holmes. Not what he had been expecting. Tall like Sherlock, broader but still elegant, the dark hair short and carefully groomed, slightly thinning. The planes of his face were more rounded than Sherlock's, but the long nose and jutting jaw line still managed to be aristocratic. He was beautiful.

And in that moment of realisation, Greg knew he would destroy him. That was the price you paid. Ultimately. He'd had a good run. A hundred and seventy two years all told. A hundred and twenty four since he had been on the beat in Whitechapel and had made the mistake of trying to stop a murder. Sure he'd got the man. But not before the teeth had sunk deep into his throat. He'd pushed his assailant away, onto a broken chair. And the man had turned to dust before his eyes. It was too late for the poor girl on the bed. And realising that no one would believe him. Believe what he had seen, he had run away. He was still running now. But it seemed he was not running fast enough.

Greg was snapped back into the present by Sherlock huffing and leaving the room. Obviously his brother had said something. And Greg was alone. Alone with Mycroft Holmes. He allowed himself the smallest of breaths. The tiniest fix of that deep chocolate scent. Mycroft Holmes smiled at him. And moved closer.

"There's no need to be frightened Inspector. I do understand." Closer still. Greg could feel his veins beginning to rise, demanding to be fed.

"You do?"

"Of course." He smiled revealing perfect white teeth. He leaned closer. "I know what you are."

"Really?" Greg tried to turn away. Looking desperately for a way out. He didn't want to die. Well, he was already dead he supposed, he just didn't want to end.

"There's no need to be embarrassed Inspector. Although I must admit I've never had that effect on anyone before. As a matter of fact, it is rather flattering." The cold blue eyes trailed up and down his body. Greg knew he was trembling now.

"Mr Holmes. You have to understand. It wasn't my fault." He was trapped.

"Of course it's not your fault. You can't help being Gay. None of us can."

"No... What?" Greg looked up at the earnestly sympathetic expression on Mycroft Holmes' face, and then followed the Cobalt gaze down to the front of his own trousers, where there was a very obvious straining erection and the evidence of a recent and rather enthusiastic ejaculation. That hadn't happened to Greg since he was a teenager.

"Now, why don't we see if we can't make you a little more comfortable?" And Mycroft leant forward, capturing Greg's mouth with warm sensuous lips. It took a second. Perhaps two, before Greg lost the battle with his own urges, as he tasted Mycroft for the first time.

He could hear every vein in his body screaming for the blood. And as Mycroft gently kissed him, pressing his body against Greg's, he was oblivious to the teeth gently scraping his throat as Greg surrendered, unable to hold on any longer.


	6. Chapter 6

The point of no return was fast approaching. That sweet moment when he would bite down on the long pale neck and taste the blood he could see, feel, smell, pulsing in the veins and arteries beneath the porcelain skin. The smell had changed, the rich chocolate now laced with cinnamon and brandy. The smell of Mycroft Holmes arousal.

Blue eyes, the pupils blown, met Greg's brown eyes, so dark they looked black, searching for something in the chocolaty depths. Searching for something, but finding something else. Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he pulled back, briefly breaking the contact between them. Greg's body was screaming at him now. Screaming for blood. Mycroft's blood. A single drop of crimson was visible just above the collar of his expensive shirt. A punctuation mark at the end of Greg's life sentence. Greg steeled himself for the inevitable.

"I think we should perhaps go somewhere a little more comfortable. Don't you Inspector?" That was not what he had been expecting. Surely Mycroft had felt the teeth on his neck? Surely he had sensed the primal urgency as Greg had prepared to take him. To make him his.

"Where?" Where will this end? That's what he meant.

"I have a suite of rooms in Mayfair." Of course he did. "Perhaps we could go there?"

Greg remembered nothing of the journey back to Mayfair. Nothing but the blurred lines of the car, the cool leather against his cold skin. The only thing that mattered, the be all and end all, was the moment it was leading to. He had realised that Mycroft had no clue what was about to happen. No idea he was being chauffeured to his own death.

Clothes were ripped off. Mycroft's suit, a good five thousand quid of anyone's money, was abandoned in a series of pinstriped puddles on the way to the bedroom. Skin almost as pale as Greg's, but warm, flushed, giving off the intense smell of lust. Mycroft was just removing his boxer shorts when he felt the lips on his neck. He leaned back into Greg's embrace, wondering why the man felt so cold behind him. He felt the arms snaking around his waist, pulling him tighter. He smiled, his arousal more intense than he could ever remember. He felt the pain. Just for a moment. The sharp burning in his throat. He realised too late what was happening. A futile struggle of a nanosecond as his brain told him that his blood was being drained. And then, as the shuddering orgasm ripped through his dying body, he surrendered himself completely.


	7. Chapter 7

The ecstasy from feeding on Mycroft, of drinking him dry, of watching the moment of panic turn to an exquisite expression of lust, followed by the slow dying of the light behind his eyes. The ecstasy lasted for half an hour before the panic set in. Before Detective Inspector Gregory LeStrade felt the empty weight of Mycroft's rapidly cooling body pinning him to the bed. Before he looked in to the dead blue eyes. The same eyes that had looked upon him with bright sparks of lust in them an hour previously. And then the full enormity of what he had done hit him.

He hadn't just killed Mycroft. It was so much worse than that. He had destroyed him. He was a not only a murderer. He had moved up a level. Greg LeStrade was now officially a monster.

A monster with a dead body on his hands.

There was a moment when Greg was tempted to run. Leave the body and hide. He had plenty of practice. And not even Sherlock Holmes would be able to find him. But there was something, even now, which made him hesitate. It might have been the faint smell of Dark Chocolate that lingered in the air. It might have been the few drops of blood flowering on the bed sheets. It might have been remains of Mycroft's Orgasm, becoming tacky on Greg's stomach. Or it might have been the strange burning that was beginning to trickle through his veins. This was different. Different to all the other times. And Greg was scared. Not scared that he was about to end. Scared that something was about to begin. He needed help.

He had no choice but to make the call.

...

"Oh well done Gregory. He is rather beautiful, isn't he?" The dirty fingernail scratched its way along Mycroft's pale, still torso. Greg felt nauseous. He was sweating. He didn't sweat. Ever. "And you drank all of his blood?" The finger dabbed at a few spots left on Mycroft's neck. "An interesting flavour, I must say." The cruel mouth drew back into a smirk, showing bad teeth. Greg shuddered. Which did not go undetected. The smirk widened.

"You find this whole thing disgusting, don't you Gregory? And now you're burning." Black beetle eyes glittered in the pale face, the delicate web of veins subtly changing as he spoke.

"Why am I burning?" A cramp was working its way up LeStrade's torso forcing him to bend double.

"Because whilst you may have taken all his blood. You have given him something of yours. And the burning is the price you pay. He will be turned. And he will be yours. But he will burn the heart out of you." He moved closer. Greg could smell him now. The clothes were beautiful, but underneath Greg knew there was three thousand years of dirt. It wasn't a smell that existed anywhere on earth. Monsieur La Neige smelt of corruption. The hand clamped around Greg's wrist and a one of the sharp, filthy talons scratched deeply above his heart. Bright Crimson welled out of the wound. La Neige licked his lips.

"It only takes a drop." And he smeared the blood onto Greg's lips. "Now wake your handsome prince with a kiss."

Greg closed his eyes, the blood on his lips tasted sour, like overripe fruit, as he lowered his head to kiss Mycroft's lifeless body.

"I'm sorry. You didn't deserve this." He whispered.

A few moments. That was all it took. Before Mycroft Holmes was sitting bolt upright, looking confused, then angry, the downright furious as he processed the information.

"What the hell have you done?" He shouted at Greg, his voice raspy and sore. He stood on shaky legs, naked, the sheet falling away from his long pale limbs as he advanced towards LeStrade, only to find his path blocked by La Neige.

"Oh Yes. Quite beautiful, Gregory." The hand scraped down Mycroft's jaw line, continuing downwards to caress the planes of his body. "Quite beautiful. Goodbye."

Mycroft looked at Greg, fuming. The blue eyes burning in to him, piercing him and making the churning in his body a thousand times worse. Then they narrowed into sharp slits, as his brain registered a new sensation.

"I'm Hungry."


	8. Chapter 8

It had taken him a few moments to process the information. He remembered dying. He remembered the black cloud pulling up over him and thinking as it reached his eyes that he really should have arranged for someone to look after Sherlock. Who would look after his little brother? Mummy was going to be furious. He remembered all of that. And then the next thing he remembered was the burning. It was terrible and exquisite at the same time. Rather like having hot candle wax poured over you, something he had done on only a handful of occasions but enjoyed immensely. It was amazing what you could get if you had enough money.

And then he was awake. Not dead. But he was quite sure he was no longer alive. The blood. Smeared across his face. Dropped like rose petals across the bed. The pale face of Gregory LeStrade, with its crimson lips a bright focus. And the man. Smiling. Predatory. Telling Mycroft he was beautiful. The unwashed hands moving over his body. And then something else. Something new.

He was hungry.

Not the hunger he was used to. The hunger he had come to ignore through years of practice. Through starving himself. This was different. He felt hungry in his bones. So hungry he could think of nothing else. And that made him unbelievably angry. An anger he was unable to control. Unable to think. His brain not obeying his commands. Certainly he had no objections to the pleasures and indulgences of flesh and bones. But always on his terms. Not like this. Not out of control.

"I'm hungry." The voice was raspy. Sore. The pale face looking at him registered surprise and then something else. Fear? Regret? Pity?

"We need to get you blood. It's the only thing that will stop the aching." There was apology in the voice. "You can't ignore it. It will get worse if you do. Get dressed and come with me?" Cold hand gripped cold hand. And Mycroft found himself compelled to obey.

He dressed quickly, the Saville Row tailoring replaced with dark jeans and a zip through sweatshirt, clothes kept in the back of the wardrobe and never worn. Until now. And then out in to the London Night. The City never really slept. But at three in the morning it was definitely catnapping. A few Taxis pottered about. The last of the late night party people being ferried to their beds, trailing Kebab meat and Vodka fumes in their wake. And all he could think of now. All that mattered was the aching cramp of hunger eating away at his insides. It was a short enough ride from Mayfair to St Bart's but by the time they pulled up outside the hospital Mycroft's brain had narrowed to nothing but a single pin point of desire. Blood.

The first few drops made him gag as they slid down his throat. He was aware of every vein in his body now, all of them screaming at him to get on with it. To feed them. He closed his eyes and swallowed the rest of it. He was surprised that there was no taste.

"Is that better? Or are you still hungry?" A reassuring hand on the back of his head.

"I need more." Three further bags of O Negative purloined from the fridge and Mycroft was feeling considerably better. Rather like the feeling he got when he finally gave in to temptation and ate a whole Cheesecake in one go. But without the guilt, after all how many calories could there be in blood? And there was something else. The wrinkled inability to think had been replaced with Knife edge creases. He could feel every cell of his brain, and he had command over all of them. He turned his attention to Gregory LeStrade, who had been watching silently. He had never noticed before, but Greg was giving off the scent of Liquorice and freshly baked cakes.

"Are you all right? I mean, do you feel better?" Silence. "Mycroft?" And suddenly Greg found Mycroft Holmes on top of him, pushing him to the floor, grinding against him and tearing at his clothes. Looking down at him with dangerous eyes.

"I need you." His lips still had blood on them, Greg's teeth marks still visible on his elegant marble neck. Greg could feel the hardness of Mycroft's erection straining over him. He could see the eyes burning with lust. And he could smell the Dark Chocolate as it enveloped his senses. A hundred and twenty four years was a very long time.

"Oh God Mycroft, yes please." And then he was lost.


	9. Chapter 9

A shaft of daylight had pushed its way in through the gap in the curtain. The hastily drawn curtains of the previous night. Normally they let nothing through, the thick blackout linings saw to that. From Greg's vantage point, pinned to the bed by the long and surprisingly heavy form of Mycroft Holmes, he could see the early morning sunlight dancing across Mycroft's shoulders. They were already pink. He needed to cover him up, the sensitivity to light was one of the more annoying side effects. Not that Greg imagined for one moment that Mycroft would have been a shorts and flip-flops kind of guy any way. But it had never occurred to Greg until that moment, how very few red-heads there were in the little community of the Un-dead of London. He had a fleeting image of Mycroft as a small boy being lathered in sun-block by his mother, no not his mother, his Nanny!

"Mycroft?" No reply. The chocolaty smell was subtle this morning. Quiet. As though even Mycroft's sensuality was snoozing. "Mycroft." Greg tried to push him off. Christ he was heavy, a literal dead weight. "MYCROFT!"

Greg found himself being dumped unceremoniously on the floor as he took the top of Mycroft's head to the chin. That was another thing they never got right in the films. The whole immune to pain thing. He shook himself and climbed back on to the bed where a very confused looking Mycroft Holmes was rubbing his sore, sun kissed shoulder and blinking at the tiny amount of daylight seeping in to the room.

"Where am I?"

"At my flat."

"Oh." A pause. A faint scent of Dark Chocolate. "Did we have sex last night?"

"Yes."

"In the mortuary at St. Bartholomew's Hospital?"

"Yeah." For some reason Greg was ridiculously pleased about that.

"I'll need to get the CCTV tapes for that wiped before any one sees it."

"Er. Not really necessary. I...We...we don't show up on CCTV. Or any type of film. No one will know we were there." There was silence whilst it sank in.

"I drank blood. Someone's blood."

"Yes you did. You needed it. After I bit you. Sorry."

"Well as long as you're sorry. That's fine then isn't it?" Mycroft inched away from the sunlight.

"I couldn't help myself. I wanted you. I still want you." Greg reached out a trembling hand to stroke Mycroft's pale face, feeling the tingle of sensation as their skin touched.

"I'm dead."

"Not exactly. You are just no longer living. You'll stay like this forever." Greg waved a hand over Mycroft's body. "You'll stay beautiful for the rest of time."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. The way Sherlock narrowed his eyes when he was working out something devious in his head. Obviously a family thing.

"I won't change at all?"

"No. Fifty years from now you won't look a day older."

"And how will I explain that? To everyone? To my darling brother, who notices everything?"

"You don't. You let The Family take care of it."

"The Family? Am I to understand there is some sort of Vampire Mafia?"

"Pretty much. Yeah." Greg thought Mycroft was really taking it well.

"Can I eat normal food?"

"Yes. You can eat whatever you like. And the really good thing is you never put on any weight. I've been twelve stone three since 1888!"

Mycroft looked Greg straight in the eyes and smiled.

"If I am no longer alive, I assume I no longer have any circulation?"

"That's right. That's why your skin will get sore if you spend too much time in the sun."

"If I have no circulation, how do you explain this?" Mycroft moved the sheet to one side, revealing a straining erection. Greg smiled.

"Just one of those things that has no explanation." He breathed in deeply. "Do you know you smell of Chocolate?"

"Chocolate? You smell of freshly baked scones." Mycroft ran his tongue over Greg's chest. "But you taste of Liquorice Allsorts."

Mycroft leaned forwards and Greg found himself being pinned to the bed by the immortal, minor government official. Perhaps forever wasn't going to be so bad after all? He was just surrendering to the sensation of Mycroft's large cock probing between his legs when his phone rang. He didn't need to see the caller ID, the ringtone (Kaiser Chiefs, I Predict A Riot) was enough.

"Oh Shit. Sherlock!"


	10. Chapter 10

Two sticky trails of red ran down Mycroft's chin. They would have made it to his pristine white shirt if it had not been for Greg LeStrade's timely intervention. He smiled and wiped the trickle away with a napkin. Mycroft smiled, a look of extreme satisfaction splayed across his face, and took a second, rather ostentatious bite. Greg sipped his double Espresso and pondered on his reversal of fortune. A hundred and twenty four years of lonely nothing and in a matter of hours he had found, bitten and taken Mycroft Holmes. Taken him and made him his. Forever. He really was going to have to explain all that later. He wasn't entirely sure if Mycroft would be okay with it. After all, a man like Mycroft would probably not take kindly to being someone else's possession.

Greg had seen it hundreds of times before. When a Vampire had made a blood bond, like the one he had made with Mycroft. The Bitten would be subservient to the Biter. Except that Mycroft seemed to have missed that memo. Or perhaps it was because Greg had only seen it happen between men and women before. A gay vampire was something of a rarity. Not that anyone in The Family seemed to mind, once bitten you tended to leave Homophobia, Racism and all the other crap that humans deemed essential to their boring little social groups behind. It was far more fun for everyone to unite and gang up on the Normals.

Mycroft gave a little sigh of contentment as he took his third bite. And then his face changed. Greg tensed immediately, following Mycroft's gaze to the doorway where Sherlock was framed by the sunlight. Mycroft moved quickly, lightning fast. Another rather nice side effect of the transition, your reaction times went through the ceiling. Greg found himself with the half eaten bacon and egg sandwich oozing ketchup onto its plate in front of him. Mycroft nonchalantly sipped his black coffee trying very hard to not look like a man who had just been stuffing his face with fried food.

Sherlock looked very hard at his brother. Then at Greg. Then back at Mycroft. Like some terrible intellectual tennis rally was going on in his head.

"Oh My God! You two had sex!" He said it loud enough for the whole cafe to hear. Greg put his head in his hands. Mycroft just stared at his brother. "That is disgusting! LeStrade, I thought you had taste!"

"I thought you wanted to talk to me about a case?"

"That was before this little domestic tableaux was laid in front of me. How's the diet Mycroft?" he looked pointedly at the wounded sandwich.

"It's going remarkably well actually." Mycroft took another sip of coffee and Greg began to scent the familiar Chocolate aroma. Interesting. Mycroft got off on arguing with his brother. So Sherlock did have his uses!

"You actually let my brother... Ewww!" Sherlock collapsed theatrically into the vacant seat next to Mycroft. There was a pause. "Oh yes. These bodies that keep turning up with no blood." If Greg had had any colour it would have drained at that point.

"Don't worry about it Sherlock." Mycroft looked dangerously at his little brother.

"But..."

"Don't worry about it. I will find you something far more interesting to do. Now run along Sherlock."

The detective looked at his brother, calculating, eyes narrowed. As though he was adding things up and getting the wrong answer.

"Oh you are just wrong. I'm telling Mummy."

"You realise that would actually mean speaking to her? Grow up Sherlock. Go home. And have a bath. Quite frankly, you smell!" Mycroft reached across the table, took the remains of sandwich and resumed his eating. Sherlock paused a moment longer before turning on his heel and flapping out of the Cafe.

Greg sighed and took a gulp of Espresso.

"God if that's what he's like about us having sex, what's going to happen if he ever finds out about the other thing?" Greg had visions of Sherlock armed to the teeth with Holy Water and Stakes and Crucifixes, none of which actually worked, but it was a pain in the arse getting stuck with a pointy stick every so often, or drenched in salty water. The Buffy Generation had a lot to answer for.

"To be honest, I think he'll find that easier to deal with!" Mycroft smiled in to his sandwich. He still had Ketchup on his chin.


	11. Chapter 11

He could not remember a time he had ever been happier. In the past forty eight hours he had eaten Bacon, Steak, Chips, Ice Cream and a perfectly obscene amount of pastry, and was still the same weight as when he had started. He had had sex more times in two days than he'd had in the past two decades. His mind was on fire. Mycroft was blessed, or cursed, with the kind of brain that really didn't need to work too hard to get things done. But now it seemed he didn't have to think at all. Everything was there. Instant access. Sherlock would be so jealous.

But Mycroft couldn't help but think that sooner or later something had to give.

The whole transition was not without its issues of course. But they all seemed very minor. The sensitivity to sunlight. Easily passed off as Mycroft had never been one for sun bathing- he spent most of his time indoors anyway. And the umbrella came in handy as a nice sunshade. The car had tinted windows, his rooms had blackout blinds. The assistant formerly known as Anthea had, at his request, purchased a pair of very good, NASA approved Sunglasses. Not a problem.

Then there was the annoyingly persistent erection. Especially, it seemed, within a Square mile of Gregory LeStrade or if he passed a bakery that happened to be making Scones. It made his trousers uncomfortable. He had to excuse himself to the bathroom on a number of occasions. In fact Sherlock's little episode at the Palace had been a welcome distraction. Five minutes before Mycroft had discovered Sherlock and John Watson sniggering like schoolboys in the day room at Buckingham Palace, Mycroft Holmes had been frantically wanking in the Duke of Edinburgh's private bathroom. Sherlock had thought he was so clever, poncing around in his sheet, thinking himself wonderfully outrageous. Mycroft had simply glared at him. His little brother was clueless.

And then there was the smell. Or Smells to be more accurate. Sherlock, having mercifully washed himself, now had the scent of stale marmalade. John Watson, however, was more complex. Greg said he smelled of toffee. Mycroft was more convinced it was single Malt with undertones of jam doughnuts. But more than that. The whole city smelled. Whitehall stank of rotting flesh, school cabbage, and surreptitious farts. Perhaps it wasn't the people. More likely the building was steeped in it through the years. It made Mycroft feel slightly nauseous.

The Secretary General of NATO was no doubt saying something he thought was of vital importance. Mycroft couldn't hear him. The burning had started again. It had begun as a tickle in his stomach. A minor irritation. But now? Now it was threatening to consume his whole body. He could feel his veins throbbing. His body keening for blood. Anyone's blood. The Secretary General's Adam's Apple, bobbed up and down above his collar. It would be very easy to rip his throat out. Mycroft shook the thought from his head. He just needed to last another five minutes. Five minutes without starting a war. Surely he could manage that?

The car that was waiting for him outside was not the usual black Sedan. He realised why when the passenger door popped open and the warm smell of Gregory LeStrade floated out.

"Get in. Quickly." A pause. Mycroft tried to fasten his seat belt. His hands were shaking. "Glove compartment." One neat pack of blood nestled in amongst the driver's manual and the window chamois. It took the edge off his craving.

"How did you know?" Mycroft asked.

"I could feel it. Feel you. Your pain." Greg smiled, a little sadly. "I'm sorry. It's my fault."

"Yes it is. But I forgive you." They stopped outside Greg's flat.

"I've got more. In the fridge."

"Good. I'm still hungry. Are you hungry?"

"Yes. And I want you."


	12. Chapter 12

Greg LeStrade bit down hard on Mycroft's shoulder, letting the glorious blood tickle his tongue. He felt Mycroft push against him harder and watched as he threw his head back, revealing the long, tempting neck. He scraped his teeth gently along the sensitive expanse of pale skin, feeling Mycroft's arousal growing under him. Feeling and tasting the lust building in the man he was currently sitting astride.

Bedding Mycroft had been something of a revelation to Gregory LeStrade. The man was absolute propriety itself normally. Even when he was craving blood he managed to control himself with an iron will. Greg knew from experience that was not an easy thing to do. But once the curtains were securely drawn and the door was safely locked against the prying eyes of the world, Mycroft Holmes became something else.

Passionate did not even come close to it.

The layers of Control and Ice and Order and Calm fell away until the real Mycroft was revealed. The Mycroft that Greg knew he had not created, but had liberated from its Saville Row prison. The Mycroft currently angling upwards to penetrate Greg's arse and ride him into oblivion. The Mycroft currently sinking sharp teeth into Greg's chest and sucking blood from around his nipple.

Greg raked his teeth along his lover's broad shoulders, relishing the taste, the smell, the feel of him. Feeling the hot, hard silk forcing its way inside him, filling him and pushing him. Pain and pleasure together in one inseparable moment.

"Mycroft!" There was no reply. The mouth still occupied with wet nursing Greg's blood, but the powerful thrust said more than any words. It said I am yours and you are mine. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. Forever and ever. And death won't part us.

It was not supposed to be like this. Even La Neige had never seen anything like it before, and he was older than the dirt they had built Carthage on. There was not supposed to be this intensity of feeling. This unending passion. There was nothing in recorded history comparable to what Greg had found in Mycroft Holmes.

But then there was nothing in recorded history like Mycroft Holmes.

"Gregory!" Mycroft had tears in his eyes. Greg felt his shuddering completion flooding him. Greg felt his own orgasm approaching like an avalanche and was powerless to do anything but be still and let it smash over him.

They lay in the darkness, Greg stroking the soft hair on Mycroft's chest. Nothing could ruin their happiness. Surely?

"Sherlock broke in to a secure research facility today. Pretending to be me. What is the legal position on fratricide?"

"In your case, justifiable. Where was John Watson?"

"Breaking in to the secure facility with my brother. Both as bad as each other. Both of them need a babysitter!" Mycroft sighed and relaxed into Greg's embrace.

There was no one in recorded history like Sherlock Holmes either.


	13. Chapter 13

"So there was actually a Giant Dog?" Mycroft grunted a little and adjusted his hips.

"Yes. Bloody ugly thing. Rottweiler-Mastiff cross. Oh God, you are so tight. Relax a bit will you?" Greg pushed in a little further against the resisting ring of muscle.

"And John Watson shot it? Yes just there. That's it. Harder."

"Yeah. Twice. Cool as you like. NNNNGGG."

"Hmm. I do wonder about Doctor Watson sometimes. Do you think him and Sherlock are...?" Mycroft made a gesture indicating their current position.

"John and your brother? Oh good God no!" Greg stopped his thrusting in order to laugh.

"Don't stop!"

"Sorry. No. Really no. John is very straight. Just completely useless with women. And I don't suppose Sherlock helps."

"No. He never does." A flicker of sadness clouded Mycroft's eyes as he looked up at Greg. "He has been a complication his entire life. His continual attention seeking. Tantrums. Outrageous behaviour and complete disregard for the rules. He drives me insane!"

"But he's still your brother."

"Exactly. Now can we please stop talking about Sherlock whilst you are inside me?"

"Your wish is my command." Greg pushed hard into the plush depths of Mycroft, feeling the heat building around him. Hearing Mycroft's soft, breathy moan as the first sticky drops of ejaculate were spread between them. Wondering if they really could stay like this forever. It worried Greg. Worried him deeply. Mycroft pretended not to care. Caring is not an advantage, he said it like a mantra. It would fool the rest of the world. But not Greg. He knew exactly how much Mycroft cared. He could feel his pain as if it was his own. He could feel his passion. He could feel everything.

And right then he could feel the tension and pent up frustration coiled deep within Mycroft's body. Sherlock was easy to blame, but Greg could not help but think it was his fault as well. Mycroft's life had been complicated enough before Greg took away the one tiny shred of comfort Mycroft held on to through all of his little brother's outrages. The simple fact that life wasn't forever. Everything ended. Only now it didn't.

Greg looked into the earnest face of his partner in eternity. Eyes narrowed, mouth slightly open. He looked so very young. And so very beautiful. His hair damp with sweat, pale skin glowing ethereally in the darkened room. Greg felt the burning pain flooding through his body. He saw the tears forming in the corners of Mycroft's near closed eyes.

"Come for me my love." Greg whispered into the younger man's ear and held him tightly as he felt Mycroft begin to spasm beneath him.

They lay very still. Almost as still as the corpses they should by rights have been. The soft scent of Chocolate filled up the space between them. But Greg could sense something was wrong.

"I'm worried about James Moriarty. I think he's going to try and kill Sherlock. And I'm worried that my brother is just stupid enough to let him." Mycroft inched closer and rested his head on Greg's chest as though he was trying to listen to the ghost of a heartbeat. Greg said nothing. He just held on tightly.


	14. Chapter 14

There was no smell. Sherlock didn't smell of anything anymore. Not the smell of overripe orchards, or that strange plastic tang. Not even the smell of Cinnamon that wafted from his pores whenever John Watson was standing next to him. Nothing. The blood dripped in. Drip. Drip. Tick. Tock. The clock slowly counting down. Mycroft felt sick. And angry. So very angry at Sherlock. And even more angry at himself.

It had been his duty. His job, to protect his little brother. And he had failed. He had protected Sherlock from the monsters, and the city, and everything that the world could throw at him. But in the end, he couldn't save Sherlock from himself. The only thing he could do. The last duty as elder brother, was to watch Sherlock die.

He stared at his little brother's broken body, scraped off the road outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital. There was nothing he could do. He had seen the moment coming. Had played it in his head so many times. This scene. A hospital bed. Sherlock. Broken. A machine keeping him and his wonderful brain alive whilst one by one his organs shut down.

Two floors down, John Watson had been sedated and restrained for his own safety. He had still managed to hurl a few choice phrases at Mycroft. Three floors up on the roof what was left of James Moriarty was being shovelled into boxes like the slim pickings of the slaughterhouse floor. Greg was seeing to that.

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes. Its time." The clipboard was pressed softly into his hand. A Biro with a chewed end. Mycroft looked at it blankly. He'd signed death warrants before. But he 'd at least given the condemned the courtesy of using a proper pen. He reached into his pocket for the handmade fountain pen. It had been his father's. And his grandfather's. He signed his name, the elegant script faltering as his hands shook. It was done. Over.

They gently removed the tubes, the wires. Only the slow, painful beat of Sherlock's heart was left.

"Is he in any pain?"

"No. It's just like falling asleep." The nurse, her name badge said Amanda, recently married, father just died. Sad. She smelt of vanilla. She squeezed Mycroft's hand. His icy cold hand. A flicker of something across her eyes. Fear? Curiosity? She shook it away.

"You're cold."

"So they tell me."

"Can I get you some coffee?" The monitor had begun to beep erratically.

"That would be most kind."

"I'm very sorry Mr Holmes." She left him looking down at his brother's pale body. Broken, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to Michelangelo's David.

Mycroft checked the corridor. He knew it was all a matter of timing. Sherlock was almost dead. The sum of every one of Mycroft's fears, multiplied by infinites. Sherlock was almost dead. But he didn't have to end.


	15. Chapter 15

He bent over Sherlock, watching the painful rise and fall of the broken chest as his little brother. His baby brother. Mummy's favourite darling boy, was gasping for his last few breaths. This was nothing like the feeling he had when he was with Greg. There was no need. No burning desire. No hunger. This was more like the times as a lonely teenager when he had sat in his room and secretly stuffed himself with food until he felt sick. And had carried on eating anyway.

"This is the absolute last time, Sherlock."

He swallowed the nausea and bit down on Sherlock's elegant neck.

The blood tasted disgusting. A horrible, over ripe, meaty flavour. Mycroft gagged, but continued. The heart monitor was sounding a single long note. Sherlock was dead. And Mycroft had just killed him.

The medical team arrived, just in time to see the tall, red-headed man bury his pale face in his brother's neck. Then he looked up. Raising his head with effort to look at them all with bloodshot eyes.

"I'm very sorry Mr Holmes." The Doctor was speaking. A nice looking young man with wide set eyes and an unfortunate jaw line. He really wasn't old enough to be a Doctor. "Would you like a few moments?"

"Thank you." And then the mask was back in place. "That won't be necessary. I will be taking my brother's body."

"I'm afraid we will need to do an autopsy Mr Holmes." The Doctor's face paled as he looked at the blue eyes now fixed upon him. It hurt to look at them.

"I really don't think so. I have clearance level Alpha 1."

"Yes Sir." The Doctor ushered the crash team from the room. Leaving Mycroft alone. He could feel his guts churning. Looking down at the still, dead, figure of his brother. What had he done?

A sound from the doorway. Greg LeStrade standing there. Radiating his usual warm bakery smell. Mycroft felt his insides twisting and the bile rising in his throat. He just made it to the sink. Greg watched in horror as Mycroft heaved up a crimson mess of blood and coffee and blue icing.

"Oh Mycroft." The hand rubbed his back. He heaved again. "Don't tell me you just bit Sherlock? Please God, tell me you haven't bitten your brother?"

"All right. I won't tell you." He dabbed at his mouth with a paper towel and set the tap running to wash away the mess in the sink. Blue Icing?

"That could have ended you! You can't drink from your own blood. It is unbelievably dangerous. How could you be so stupid?" Greg was frantically checking Mycroft. Running concerned hands over his face and body.

"Well it's done now. And I'm still here. Now help me? Please?" He looked so lost and confused. Greg felt his insides contract and heard La Neige's words: _he will burn the heart out of you. _It seemed La Neige, as ever, was quite correct.

"We need to get him to The Family. Quickly."

There was already a private ambulance waiting downstairs, in to which Sherlock's body was loaded for transport. Mycroft looked back at the hospital as the car pulled away. What he had done to Sherlock was terrible. Yes. But what he had just done to John Watson had undoubtedly secured him a ticket to hell.


	16. Chapter 16

La Neige draped himself over an uncomfortable, throne like, wooden chair and regarded Mycroft for a moment. Then he swivelled his glittering black eyes on to Greg.

"Well Gregory. You never told me there were two of them? And they do seem to be trouble don't they?" He stood, his suit every bit as elegant a Mycroft's, caressing his slender frame, and stopped a foot away from the elder Holmes brother. One dirty fingered hand caressed the side of Mycroft's face. "Beautiful, but trouble."

He looked straight in to the Icy blue eyes and sneered a smile. He was the same height as Mycroft. Greg shuddered. It was like a terrible mirror. Mycroft never saw the slap coming. La Neige's hand left no mark, but there was a stinging ring in the air.

"Silly boy. What were you thinking?" And then he turned his attention to Sherlock.

The body had been placed on what Mycroft came to think of as an altar. A large marble platform, surrounded by candles. Sherlock's finger tips and lips were blue. His face still crossed with cuts. Cuts that would never heal? Mycroft felt Greg's hand slip in to his, squeezing gently.

La Neige ran a predatory hand over Sherlock's naked torso. LeStrade placed a restraining hand on Mycroft's shoulder.

"How sweet. I'm not going to hurt him. After all, what can I do? You're the one who killed him! But you want him back? Your little brother. Mummy's favourite is he?"

Mycroft shot La Neige a poisonous look.

"I do hope he's this passionate in bed in Gregory. It's a wonder you don't catch fire. Burned up in the heat of the Iceman." La Neige clicked his tongue. "But this one. This one is cold. He's never loved. Never been touched. He's special. Virginal."

"Sherlock's a virgin?" Greg would have laughed but for the sick feeling churning up his insides.

"Yes. Oh yes Gregory. And that is why his rather lovely brother here is not dead. Tell me beautiful, what did he taste of?" he licked his lips.

"School dinners." Mycroft felt his stomach twist. That was the taste. Prep School dinner.

"Interesting." The veins in La Neige's pale face pulsed slightly and the sneer broadened, showing his blackened teeth. "You do know this means he is yours now?"

"What?" Mycroft and Greg spoke together.

"You've drank the blood of a virgin, Mycroft Holmes. He's yours. Your brother is now entirely yours to do with as you will. You can bring him back. But if you do, you are the only one who can make him end. And if anything should happen to you, he will walk the earth for all eternity. Damned. Forever."

As repulsive as Mycroft found La Neige, he couldn't help but notice the underlying sadness in him. And Mycroft understood. Whoever had turned La Neige was gone. Dust. And La Neige had to walk the earth forever, rotting from the inside with no hope of reprieve. He almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Mycroft turned to LeStrade.

"What do I do? He's my brother. He's the only thing in my life I ever cared about. I can't lose him yet." Greg nodded. He understood.

Mycroft's lips were smeared with his own blood as he bent down to kiss his brother. It took a few moments and then Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. A few moments more before his brain rebooted. A few moments before he shoved Mycroft away from him.

"Mycroft? What the fuck do you think you are doing? Stop kissing me! Ewwww! What is wrong with you?" And then he looked around the room, taking in the scene in the flickering candlelight. "Oh my God Mycroft. You fat bastard! What have you done?"


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock was furious. Glaring at his brother. And Mycroft could not think of anything to say. Nothing that would explain the situation. Nothing that could possibly make it better. And Mycroft always made it better. That was his job. To make everything better for Sherlock. That was his reason for existing.

The two men squared off. Sherlock slightly shorter than his brother, whippet thin, pale eyes burning with malice. Mycroft, taller, broader, face resigned to the inevitable battle that was coming, all other options now exhausted.

Sherlock's fist connected sharply with Mycroft's face. Greg felt the force of it, the hatred and anger behind it. He wanted to stop them. To step in between them. Another blow fell as Sherlock began hitting his brother in earnest, his sharp fists pounding against Mycroft's flesh. Mycroft just stood there, his face blank and took the beating. As though he had done this before.

"Strange. He should be needing blood by now." La Neige hissed into LeStrade's ear. "He should be burning. Why is he not burning?" The dead eyes swivelled to look at Greg. "And how do you feel about it? After all he is currently trying to beat up your _wife_!" Greg got the distinct impression La Neige was enjoying himself immensely.

Greg should have been angry. Wildly angry. Before when Sherlock had made his inane comments about Mycroft's diet, Greg had just about been ready to rip his head off. Every time Mycroft's phone went in the middle of the day and he had to leave their bed in order to sort out another mess his little brother had made, Greg was angry. A terrible gut crushing rage that he fought to control. But now, when Sherlock was attempting to smash his brother's face in, Greg felt nothing, but a mild concern.

What was happening?

Sherlock finally collapsed on the floor, his legs unable to support him any longer; perhaps the need for blood was finally kicking in.

"Why did you do this?" he raised tear filled eyes to where Mycroft was standing. "I was free. I would have been free of this." Sherlock indicated his own body, the delicate pattern of veins beginning to bulge beneath the marble skin. "I could have been free of it. All of it. I know he was never going to love me back, but at least it wasn't forever. Now it is."

Mycroft knelt down in front of his brother, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. The full weight of what he had done was beginning to dawn on him. How had he never noticed Sherlock's feelings for John Watson? Feelings he was certain the dependable and very heterosexual Doctor would never reciprocate, whether he had the rest of time or not.

And there was only one way Mycroft could make it better. He had to ask the question. The sickening question. Sherlock had buried his face into Mycroft's chest, nuzzling against the soft hair that was exposed where his shirt had been unbuttoned. The cut La Neige had made there was still bleeding. Sherlock was licking at his brother's blood.

"Mycroft? I'm hungry." There was a new horror in Sherlock's voice as he said it. Mycroft looked over the top of Sherlock's head to where La Neige sat, with an expression of eternal curiosity on his face. He felt Sherlock's teeth bite into the flesh just below his nipple. He knew he had no option but to ask.

"Monsieur La Neige, how do I kill my brother?" After all, it was his job to look after Sherlock.


	18. Chapter 18

"It's quite simple really. You just have to cut his head off. Try not to make too much of a mess." La Neige nonchalantly handed Mycroft a Damascus Knife. He moved closer, pressing his body against Mycroft's. "Save me the blood, beautiful."

Mycroft looked at the knife in his hands. He felt sick. A level of nausea he didn't think it was possible to experience. Sherlock was refusing to drink the blood his body was craving. Screaming and lashing out at everyone and anyone. Every vein in that slender body stood out in painful relief, his eyes wild with hatred. But behind them. Inside. Running through the now empty rooms of his mind palace, Mycroft knew his little brother was lost and frightened. No longer able to control the urges of his body. He'd seen it before. The heroin detox. But this was different. This was worse.

This was Mycroft's fault.

Sherlock looked at his brother. Red eyes full of malice. Eyes that said "I hate you, but please help me." He struggled as Mycroft hoisted him to his feet and then held his brother tight against him. The feral creature taking over his body wanted to fight. But the small part of Sherlock still in control was very grateful. It understood. There was a reason Mycroft was bigger and stronger than Sherlock, even now. It was because he had to be.

Sherlock caught the scent of Chocolate. It was somehow comforting. Calming. He relaxed against his brother and waited. He felt the silver knife press against his throat. It was cold. The knife hesitated.

"Mycroft. Please. " Sherlock never said please. In all the situations he had ever been in when his life was hanging by a bootlace he had never begged. Never pleaded for his life. Now he was pleading for his death. The strong arm around his chest tightened. He knew Mycroft didn't want to let him go.

"Mycroft. Please. "He repeated. "I'm frightened. Please kill me."

Greg LeStrade watched the scene unfolding and became increasingly aware of the pain in his chest. He'd broken his ribs sometime in the 1800s. That had hurt. Victorian medicine left a lot to be desired. But this? Perhaps he was having a heart attack? Only he couldn't have a heart attack as technically his heart was no longer beating. The bone crushing agony was making his head swim. And then, he knew. This was the pain of a brother about to kill the only thing he had ever loved or cared for in his entire life. Mycroft's pain. And there was nothing Greg could do to help but stand there and suffer with him.

"Sherlock. I'm so very sorry."

"I love you too Mycroft." The knife pushed into Sherlock's pale throat. This was it. The final problem. Solved.

And then Greg's phone rang: **Caller ID: Molly Hooper**. He listened. Aware that all eyes were on him.

And in spite of everything that was to follow, Greg never stopped wondering if that day Molly was an angel sent from the heavens to save them all.

"What?" Mycroft still had the knife at Sherlock's throat.

"Someone's just tried to kill John Watson. One of Moriarty's people."

Sherlock twisted from his brother's grip. The knife had left an ugly red mark across his throat.

"Kill me later? Once he's safe. Once I've won the game?"


	19. Chapter 19

Finally Sherlock was asleep. After Mycroft had ensured John Watson was under twenty four hour surveillance. After Mycroft had ordered the secret service in to guard him. After LeStrade had got Special Branch investigating the attempt on his life and an armed response unit on standby. It wasn't a happy sleep. He was curled in to a ball on the bed in Mycroft's spare room, having been given much needed blood and a p-air of Mycroft's pyjamas. He had protested about both but more vehemently about the pyjamas. It wasn't a happy sleep. But it was sleep never the less.

Mycroft sighed and collapsed on to the bed. He had divested himself of his suit and blood streaked shirt. He would have them burnt. He knew that they would never be clean of the smell of Sherlock's death and La Neige's enjoyment. He had scrubbed himself in the shower and had managed to remove most of the stench of the day from his skin. All he wanted to do now was sleep. To curl up with Greg and fill his senses with the smell of him.

Greg traced the pattern of hair on Mycroft's chest and belly, tickling him a little, making him wriggle. He breathed deeply, revelling in the chocolate and cinnamon, wishing that Mycroft felt as warm as he smelt. He looked over every inch of that tired body. Studying. Committing it to memory. It felt as though it was important to remember.

He noticed the scars on Mycroft's body, half hidden by the reddish brown hair. So many scars. Old scars. A lifetime of living dangerously mapped on the pale skin. The contours of being.

"What's this one?" He ran a finger along a muscular thigh, along a pale mark a few inches long.

"Bicycle. Aged nine. I was wearing shorts." Somehow the image appeared in LeStrade's head was of a tiny Mycroft in tailored pinstriped shorts.

"What are these from?" He traced a series of scars along Mycroft's stomach. Probably more recent. And they had been stitched. Mycroft looked a little uncomfortable. He stayed Greg's hand before answering.

"They are from the only time i have ever been glad to be fat."

"But you're not fat." Lean and Well built? Yes. Fat? Not a chance!

"I was once. So fat in fact, that when I was stabbed six times in the belly, the blade of the knife was unable to damage any vital organs."

"You were stabbed six times? What the hell happened? Who stabbed you?" What was past was prologue, but that didn't stop Greg from being livid about it.

"Who do you think? Who would be the only person allowed close enough to me?"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock stabbed you six times?"

"Yes."

"In God's name why?"

"I'd taken his heroin away from him." Silence. Greg was struggling to wrap his head around this latest slice of Holmes family life.

"So you used to be bigger? That's why Sherlock is always making wise-cracks about your diet?"

"Yes. He seems to take great pleasure in reminding me at every opportunity."

"I am going to kill the little shit." Greg motioned to leave the bed.

"Unfortunately it seems only I can do that. And I'd much rather you stayed here with me." Mycroft ran his fingers through the grey spikes. "After he stabbed me, I decided to lose weight. It really worked out for the best. You wouldn't have looked twice at me then."

Greg rolled over so he was on top of Mycroft, looking into eyes half filled with sleep, half filled with lust. Eyes that despite everything that had happened seemed to be peaceful, contented. He felt their erections touching. That tiny electric shock of pleasure every time he realised that Mycroft wanted him. Needed him. He breathed in the rich aroma that was Mycroft Holmes. Something so purely sensuous it transcended the physical world.

"I wouldn't care what you looked like." Which was quite true. Greg had known he had to have Mycroft even before he had seen him. When he was just a name in an anonymous black car. "I've waited so many years for you. I've been on my own for so long." He ran his hands over Mycroft's solid shoulders, just to check he was really there. "We were meant to be."

And then he allowed himself to melt against Mycroft's body. Feeling the gentle passion as it began to swell inside them both. Knowing that if they were careful, this could last forever.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He knew where he was. Mycroft's house. He could smell him. The rich scent of expensive food and he could smell LeStrade, the spices and cordite. And the two of them together? Without hearing. Without seeing. Sherlock could smell what they were doing. And his mind was on fire. The focus was so sharp. Like the Heroin. Every nerve ending. Every brain cell. And only one thought.

"I need John Watson."


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft lay quite comfortably with the gentle weight of Greg LeStrade on top of him. He was relaxed. Dozing. At peace. Before Gregory. Before the bite. Before he died. His nights had been almost sleepless. An hour or two at best of fitful sleep, unable to switch his mind off. Unable to relax. But now, he lay not quite awake, not quite asleep, with all of his limbs melted against Greg's. Unable to move. Not wanting to move. With one thought: Mine.

As he slept Greg's subconscious took over. Possessively covering Mycroft's body with his own. Covering Mycroft with his scent. Drinking in Mycroft's own smell. Grinding against him. With one thought: Mine.

Greg awoke. Fuzzy. He wanted two things. Blood. And Mycroft. He had known hunger before. Bone biting desperation as he had staggered around the gas lit streets of London, not quite understanding what was happening to him. Until the family had found him and he had fed for the first time. He had known what it felt like to have your whole body raging at you, desperate. Hungry. And none of it compared to the desperate need he had at this moment for the man beneath him. Greg was barely in control as he ran his hands roughly over the pale body sleeping beneath him. Feeling the sleek muscle responding to his touch. The familiar arousal pushing into his thigh.

The blue eyes flickered open. A smile of surrender. That was how the blood bond worked. Greg bared his teeth, biting down on the meat of Mycroft's chest. Feeling the blood flow over his lips. Thrusting forward in to Mycroft. Drinking. Thrusting. Possessing.

Mycroft felt the sharp bite on his pectoral muscle. Felt the now familiar sensation of his blood flowing into his lover's mouth. Felt the burning, painful pleasure as Greg entered him. The world narrowed to an area a few inches squared just behind his belly button. And then it seemed reality was stretching. Expanding and contracting in time to the rhythmic movements of Greg's penetration. Everything was white hot and blisteringly focussed. They were heading towards the very apex of passion.

Greg felt Mycroft tightening around him, the long arms pulling him closer, holding him. Mycroft was strong. Almost disturbingly strong. Greg could feel his ribs being crushed. He could feel his orgasm being squeezed from his body. It hurt. But it was wonderful. He pounded against Mycroft, throwing his head back.

"Mine." He grunted it through clenched teeth. And felt Mycroft bite down on his shoulder as they came together.

"Mine." Mycroft breathed through lips covered with Greg's blood. The embrace was gentle now, as they both drifted back to sleep.

In the shadows, unnoticed by either man. Sherlock watched.


	21. Chapter 21

"Mycroft? Where's Sherlock?" Greg squeezed Mycroft's big toe, which he had found to be a most effective way of waking him up.

"What do you mean Where's Sherlock?" Mycroft was feeling a bit groggy. He noticed the veins in his left arm were sticking out.

"He's gone!"

"Gone?" Mycroft stood up a little too rapidly, tangling his legs in the sheet.

"His rooms empty. And his coat's not there."

"Bloody hell!" Mycroft was already pulling on jeans and boots, foregoing underwear and socks in his haste. "We should have chained him up."

"I didn't realise that was an option." Greg, whilst aware of the seriousness having a Sherlock full of blood cravings roaming the streets, was slightly distracted by the sight of Mycroft pulling on a Guns and Roses hooded top and the rich smell of cocoa and coffee emanating from him.

"Where will he go?"

"Gregory. There is only one place Sherlock go. There's only one thing Sherlock wants." And Mycroft was gone out into the early morning.

Of course there was only one place Sherlock would go. Only one thing he really wanted. John. Mycroft knew that. He knew because something rather strange was happening. He could see inside Sherlock's head. He wondered if it was like that for Gregory. Could he see all of Mycroft's innermost thoughts? If he could, Mycroft took a little comfort form the knowledge that his Detective Inspector, as adorable as he was, would be unable to understand the particular shorthand of Mycroft's brain.

But inside Sherlock's head? It was like looking at line upon line of numbers and words in some complicated encyclopaedia. An encyclopaedia that a child had taken a thick red crayon and scrawled the word John on every page.

Mycroft found Sherlock in Baker Street. Sitting silently in John's chair.

"He's gone Mycroft." Sherlock didn't look up. Somehow he knew his brother was stood behind him.

"Yes."

"He didn't wait for me. I told him to wait."

"Yes."

"Why? Why has he gone?"

"Because he thinks you are dead. He cannot bear to sit here surrounded by everything you once shared. If I know John Watson, he will somehow think he should have died. That it's his fault. That if he had been a little braver, a little cleverer none of this would have happened."

"And what happens now?"

"Now we set to work and bring down Moriarty's little empire, so that everyone who is still alive can go on living."

"And what about me? What about John?"

"Once he's safe, perhaps we can come to an arrangement." Mycroft rested a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"And why should I trust you? After what you did to me?" The veins in Sherlock's arms stood up. The track marks from the countless injections of drugs lit up like neon signs on the pale flesh.

"Because I'm all you have now." Mycroft moved around to the front of the chair, so he was facing his brother. He pulled the sweatshirt over his head and pulled Sherlock's face into his chest. Into the small wound that had not quite closed. "Drink little brother. Drink from me."


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock could smell his brother's arousal. It made him feel rather ill. A lot of the smells around London made him feel rather ill these days. But the one that really made him gag was Eau de Mycroft. He had only just got home. He slipped in through the door at the back of the house. The tradesman's entrance if you liked. The night air was cool. Dark. The city smelt quite clean really. The recent rain had seen to that. The rain that Sherlock had let wash over him as he crouched on the rooftop of the hospital. Watching. Waiting.

The smell hit him as soon as he got into the hallway. The unmistakable, sweet, cakey aroma of his big brother shagging Detective Inspector Gregory LeStrade. In the antique bed that had once belonged to their Grandmother. It was obscene. The pair of them were like teenagers. Every spare moment of every day was spent bonking. Sherlock really wished they had more self- control. And of course now he could hear them, now he knew, he would hear nothing else. He had taken to sleeping wearing headphones, playing music to drown them out. The sound of metal fatigued bedsprings. The sound of flesh on flesh. Teeth scraping skin. Biting. Sucking. The breathless sounds of orgasm. And then ten minutes later they would start over.

It was bad enough having to listen to it. Without having to smell it. Without having to have his nostrils violated. He could feel the rage building. He had been so angry. Angry at Mycroft. Angry at the world. Angry at everything in it. Inside he could feel the burning.

The same burning he felt as he sat on the rooftop, crouched like a Notre Dame Gargoyle as the water spouted across his shoulders. Feeling like stone as he looked down at the small figure, creeping in to the hospital, unnoticed by a world that didn't care. Even with the torrent of rain and the smell of the damp city, Sherlock could still smell John. His John. Although now the scent was faded. Like the perfume ghost of a flower pressed between the pages of a book. A memory.

The bedroom door didn't stand a chance. Mycroft rolled his eyes as Sherlock burst into the room. Beneath him Greg was writhing about, on the very brink of Orgasm. Mycroft continued his thrusting. Just a few more seconds. That was all he needed. A few more. And then.

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft went cross eyed as Greg clamped tight around him. His own Orgasm burst out of him. He could almost feel his heart pounding.

"That's disgusting." Sherlock glared at his cross eyed brother. Mycroft took a moment to focus.

"I do wish you learn to knock."

"I do wish you'd learn to be quiet instead of whimpering like a bitch in heat."

Mycroft left the bed and walked towards his brother.

"When did you last eat Sherlock?"

"I don't need to eat!"

"I think you do. When will you learn things are not as they were?"

"When will you let me die?"

"Sherlock!"

"I followed John today."

"We talked about that. You can't do that. It's too dangerous. You could be seen."

"He stood at my grave and begged me not to be dead. He begged me for one last miracle. But he doesn't mean it. He won't want this. Not like this."

"You might be surprised. Drink this."

Sherlock became aware that his brother had steered him to his own room and placed a glass of blood in his hand. Only Mycroft would serve blood in Louis the Fourteenth Crystal. He sipped, reluctantly acknowledging that it made him feel better. For the moment. But he knew deep down, only John Watson had the cure.


	23. Chapter 23

The satisfaction from smacking Mycroft Holmes in his annoying smug face had lasted for a few seconds before the pain had started. John looked at his hand, seeing the telltale signs of a broken bone swelling the back of it. Hitting Mycroft had been like punching a brick wall. John would have bet everything he owned that Mycroft would have gone down like a felled tree. Mycroft just stood there.

"Are you quite finished? By all means keep hitting me but I'm a busy man and you only have a finite number of hands." Which made John want to hit him again. Mycroft caught his hand this time. His reaction lightning fast for a man who spent his life behind a desk. He leaned in to John Watson breathing deeply lips parted slightly. John looked into his eyes. He had never noticed before how very beautiful Mycroft's eyes were. John found himself leaning forward. Drawn into the blue depths.

And then Mycroft squeezed his hand. The broken one. The pain snapped John out of whatever he had been falling into.

"He's dead. And you don't care."

"On the contrary Doctor Watson. Now he is dead he is of even greater concern to me."

"You should have cared whilst he was alive."

"And where would that have got me? Venting my displeasure like you? Shouting at a world that has become deaf to protests? Lashing out? Really not helping you is it?" Mycroft sat down in the high backed chair. There was something about him that was worrying John intensely. But he just could not place a finger on it. John had gone to the Diogenes Club to beg Mycroft to stop the press. The incessant stories of the failed, deluded genius. He hadn't expected compassion from Mycroft. But he had expected more than a cursory nod towards sympathy.

He'd expected more. He'd always believed that Mycroft was not the heartless cold man the world thought he was. But it seemed the world was right and John was wrong. And now there was something else.

John was afraid.

And he didn't know why.

"If I were you Doctor Watson. I would go home. And forget about Sherlock."

"I was his friend."

"My brother didn't have friends."

"No. He just had one. Me. And it is my duty as his friend to miss him."

Mycroft smiled. And John knew he had to get out.

John was halfway towards home, the sunshine pouring down on him, like a blanket easing away the nightmares, when he stopped and looked at the ground. He looked at the people going about their daily business, the people that never knew Sherlock, never cared about him, but were happy to read all about it in the tabloids. All the people in the sunshine. And that's when John realised.

Despite the sun streaming in through the windows of the Strangers room of the Diogenes Club, Mycroft Holmes cast no shadow.


	24. Chapter 24

John watched from the shadows, through the chink in the curtains. Greg was naked. Reclining on the bed. The other man was straddling him, head thrown back, long neck exposed. John saw the bite. The teeth sinking into the pale flesh. Not just a love bite or even some kind of pain play. This was designed to draw blood, to torture the jugular vein raised up blue against white skin. Red, white and blue.

John was shocked. Well not exactly shocked. He always guessed that Mycroft Holmes would be one kinky bastard. Only not quite this kinky. Not quite this out of control. And John had always pegged Greg LeStrade as Mr Ordinary. A career policeman, a little bit old fashioned even. Certainly not a bloke to do something like...well like this. It wasn't that John had never entertained the possibility of Greg being gay, he'd never really thought about it if he was honest.

Greg leaned backwards, the blood dripping down his chin matching the streak of crimson running down Mycroft's neck and chest. Both men writhing with pleasure. John felt slightly sick. The slender plains of Mycroft's body a parody of Sherlock's. All long limbs and pale skin and sweat. Mycroft's brow furrowed, his head flopping forwards against Greg as the Detective Inspector thrust deeply into him. Then he threw his head back once more, the blood oozing from the wound on his neck dark and sluggish.

John wanted to turn away. He knew what was going to happen. Literally what was coming next. But John Watson found himself unable to turn away as he watched Mycroft's orgasm fountain from his body and cover Greg's chest and stomach. As he watched Greg thrust three more times before collapsing backwards, spent. As he watched Mycroft Holmes lean forwards and bite down on Greg's chest and then smile, his mouth dripping with blood.

John took a step backwards, nearly losing his footing on the balcony. He was cretin that watching Mycroft and Greg having whatever perverted sex this was did not give him the moral high ground. Mycroft stood, untangling his long legs from the sheets, his erection still impressively evident as he walked across the room to retrieve his dressing gown. There was a long mirror in the bedroom, opposite the window and John suddenly realised the there was a possibility of being seen as Mycroft turned. On the bed Greg said something, a low rumble, and Mycroft smiled, that cruel, cold smile of his and returned to the bed. But not before pausing to look out of the window.

John ducked quickly and stealthily climbed over the balcony rail and shinned down the drainpipe. The slippery drainpipe. He lost his grip half way down and slid painfully back to street level.

"Ow! Damn. My leg." He hopped away as quickly as he could, puzzling what he had seen.

Above him, on the roof, crouching low, a pair of silver eyes and their owner watched John Watson limping up the street.


	25. Chapter 25

"I wondered when you would be back." La Neige regarded his own filthy nails without looking up at Sherlock. "Is that beautiful brother of yours not looking after your needs? All of your needs?" Sherlock could feel his face burning with shame and disgust, partly for himself, partly for the man before him. If you could call La Neige a man.

"He keeps me safe."

"And that's it, isn't it. He keeps you. Like a pet." La Neige licked his dry lips. "No doubt he's too busy pleasuring himself with his little policeman to worry about you. Is that it? It is. Isn't it? You awoke from death to realise that all these years what you wanted most was your brother. He was the only one like you. And now you realise that you can never have him. And he tastes so divine."

Sherlock shuddered, still able to taste Mycroft on his lips, the only thing able to calm him and stop him ripping at his own skin was his brother's blood. Mycroft tasted of fire and ginger and Christmas and thunderstorms. In one of his lucid moments Sherlock had asked Greg what he could taste, and Greg had told him that Mycroft tasted of rich dark chocolate and ages old brandy. Sherlock couldn't agree. To him his brother tasted of God.

xx

Mycroft awoke with the cold blue light of early morning pooling on the floor by the bed. Pressed up close next to him, Greg slept on. For moment, whilst he gathered his thoughts Mycroft was in two minds whether to bring his teeth down on Greg's beautiful neck, or to slide his near permanent erection into the velvet depths of Greg's firm arse. But then he listened. There was almost an echo of Sherlock's thoughts in the room. And Mycroft knew. Sherlock had gone to La Neige. And that was not going to end well.

Mycroft looked down at the sleeping policeman. He kissed him gently. This was family business. And Mycroft, as everyone knew, was very good of taking care of business. He dressed quickly, pulling on dark blue jeans and a checked shirt, things could get messy and there was no point in ruining a good suit. And despite the whole not changing thing, Mycroft was sure his shoulder were a little broader than they used to be, his arms slightly more muscular, his waist slightly thicker. He smiled at the irony: only he could end up as the only vampire with weight issues! He grabbed his leather jacket from the cloakroom and opened the front door. The cold didn't bother him, but the smell did. The smell of London. Ages old and filled with death and lies and hate. And just on the top of it, the smell of his little brother's despair.

Unseen in the shadows, John Watson watched the tall elegant figure of Mycroft Holmes pause on his doorstep to sniff the morning air, before pushing on sunglasses and walking with purpose out onto the crunchy frosted pavement. John clicked the safety off of his revolver and followed at a distance.

xx

La Neige wasn't surprised that Mycroft had shown up. Not really. But he was surprised at how easily he had found them. And La Neige was also, almost, troubled by the sense of power he was detecting. It seemed that Mycroft Holmes was very powerful indeed. Although mercifully he was also unaware of it. Unaware of the dangerous combination of immortality and intelligence that pulsed in his veins. Unaware of something else as well.

"You've come to rescue your little brother, how sweet. Beautiful and honourable. That's a very attractive combination Mr Holmes. " La Neige stood inches away from Mycroft, his rancid breath pushing its way out of his mouth like air escaping from a tomb.

"I do suggest you don't stand in my way." The hand slinked down the front of Mycroft's torso. Mycroft made a mental note to burn the shirt when he got home.

"Why would I stand in your way?" La Neige stepped aside. Sherlock was sat on the floor, shaking, hollow eyed and sweating with his veins standing out like cords on his arms. Even in the worst ravages of his Heroin addiction, Sherlock had never looked so bad. So helpless. Mycroft looked down at his brother, Sherlock's reddened silver eyes meeting Mycroft's piercing blue ones.

La Neige snaked his arm around Mycroft, pressing himself into his back and tilting his head so that Mycroft's long neck was exposed.

"I want your blood." The finger trailed along the jugular vein. "So beautiful." La Neige drew back his lips to reveal his blackened fangs. "And I want to have you." The points scraped against Mycroft's pale skin.

"I'm sorry Mycroft. You shouldn't have followed me." Sherlock was crying. "You should have left me to die. It would have been better like that."

"I don't think so!" Everyone turned to see the bristling figure of John Watson levelling a gun at la Neige and Mycroft. "Now which one of you bastards shall I shoot first?"


	26. Chapter 26

John found himself dumped on the floor. He had shot his gun. He knew he had. Directly at Mycroft. Right at the smug bastard's chest and to hell with the consequences. Only Mycroft hadn't gone down. He'd hardly blinked. The bullet clinked from Mycroft's hand onto the floor, dropped like an annoying piece of fluff. The harsh blue eyes stared at John now, but not with anger as John would have thought. It was more like disappointment.

The tall man in the suit turned his glittering black eyes onto John. Regarding him with mild interest. He licked his lips slightly.

"So, who's hungry?" La Neige had released the grip he'd had on Mycroft once the bullets had started. Sherlock tried to raise himself off the floor, but found his legs seemed unwilling to support him. "This nice little snack followed you all the way here. But it's not you he wants." La Neige pulled John to his feet by the back of his hair. John shuddered, the gun had clattered to the floor, useless.

"Leave him alone." Sherlock spoke between gritted teeth, biting down the urge for blood, any blood that was surging through his veins.

"He's a soldier." La Neige sniffed and ran his tongue along John's exposed throat. "Warriors always taste so wonderful." Mycroft moved so quickly John didn't see it. He caught a partial glimpse of the fist smashing into the man who was holding him. There was a terrible crack, like rotted tree trunks being torn down. La Neige stepped back, letting John crash to the floor. John could see the veins in Mycroft's neck standing out against his pale skin, fists clenching and unclenching and for the briefest of moments John could smell something. Something rather like dark chocolate but with that smell you got just after thunderstorms. John scuttled across the floor, not bothering to stand, not trusting his legs, crawling to where Sherlock sat, shaking like a man de-toxing.

"Sherlock?"

"John. I'm sorry."

"You're alive?"

"No John, no I'm not."

"What?"

La Neige moved his neck from side to side before turning his gaze on Mycroft. And for the first time there was the slightest hint of fear. Behind the black beetle eyes, La Neige was afraid. The ring on Mycroft's finger had made a dent in the puffy grey flesh of the old vampire's face. Around them the others drew back, a wide circle of uncertainty forming.

"What are you?" La Neige spat, his brow furrowing. "What are you that can challenge me? I have looked upon kings, I have looked upon the son of the carpenter, for millennia, and I have never seen anything like you. What are you?" He repeated.

Mycroft drew himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders and tilting his head back slightly. John looked up from the floor, seeing those bright blue eyes burning in the gloomy room.

"I occupy a minor position in the British Government." There was a certain elegance to that statement that in spite of his fear John Watson could not help but admire.

"More importantly." A new voice spoke. "He's my Lover. He's the one I love." Gregory LeStrade stood in a state of dishevelment, wearing jeans that were slightly too big for him. It would transpire later that they were actually Mycroft's. John looked from one to the other, the half smile that was now dancing across Mycroft's lips and the wide grin plastered on Greg's face. John realised he had done a disservice to them both in thinking they were just playing kinky games. He'd probably never seen two people more in love.

Greg moved to stand next to Mycroft. Somehow he was no longer afraid of La Neige.

"It seems, Monsieur La Neige, that we have a problem. How shall we resolve it?"


	27. Chapter 27

The man who had tried to punch Mycroft had been thrown across the room and collapsed in a pile of bones against the wall. No one was quite sure how that had happened. But now everyone was afraid. Well, everyone except Greg, who was so turned on he thought his groin was going to explode if he didn't have Mycroft very soon. He could smell the heady chocolate aroma filling the room. He knew Sherlock could too. The younger man had slinked over to his brother and was standing behind him now, a look of desperate desire on his face.

John Watson was still trying to work out quite what was happening. And his brain was also trying to compute the information that despite seeing him plunge from the top of the building to the road beneath, with blood oozing from his head and his body broken, Sherlock was still alive. And obviously Mycroft had something to do with it. And John had punched Mycroft and sworn at him, and silently and not so silently cursed him. And it seemed he owed the elder Mr Holmes a rather massive apology. Once he'd got his whole head around how he'd never noticed how sexy Mycroft was before, or that he'd got muscles or...

John shook his head. It was that strange smell in the room that was confusing him. It was filling his nostrils up and making it difficult to breathe. Chocolate and thunderstorms and that slightly antiseptic smell you got from Root Beer.

"We are leaving. And if you try to stop us. Or you ever interfere with my family again I will end every last one of you." Mycroft flexed his shoulders slightly, his leather jacket creaking in the silence ringing around the room. There was the slightest beam of light filtering in to the room, caressing the side of Mycroft's head and turning his hair the most beautiful copper colour. Mycroft stepped away from it instinctively and his face was in the shadows once more. But John could still see his eyes.

They were burning.

La Neige stared into the blue depths of those eyes. It was like looking at the sky on a summer's day. Like looking at the heavens. Something La Neige had not done for many years. It hurt to look at the sky and the sun. It burned. And he was burning now. He turned away from Mycroft's gaze. He supposed he had known that this day would arrive. But he had never expected that when it did he would be staring into the eyes of this copper haired fallen angel.

They had all backed away, clinging to the edges of the room as though they could get away from those burning eyes by disappearing into the cracks in the walls. Sherlock stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother, his Silver eyes piercing the gloom, seeing fear and disbelief in every face. Feeling the sharp focus of his brain. Feeling the power? Was that was it was? The power Mycroft actually had. Feeling that surging around him like a loose electrical cable snaking its way towards earth. Knowing that when it touched down there would be trouble. It was like waiting for the fix to hit.

Greg pressed himself against Mycroft's back. He didn't care. Not anymore. He was so aroused. He wanted Mycroft to take him right then. An elegant hand reached backwards to touch his face.

"Soon." Mycroft's lips hardly moved as he said it. "Sherlock. Get John."

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, feeling John recoil at his cold touch. Feeling the smaller man's resistance.

"Please John. I will explain later. But we have to go. Now." Sherlock wrenched John to his feet and dragged him forcefully towards the only exit.

Mycroft stood facing La Neige with Greg still pressed close behind him. The detective inspector snaked an arm around Mycroft's torso, caressing his body and grinding against him.

"What are you?" La Neige asked again, watching the younger man tilt his head back against his partner. There had never been anything like this. It had never been foretold. La Neige searched his mind for something, anything, some tiny mention of this somewhere in the centuries of lore. There was nothing. This was new. And dangerous.

"I think we may be the future. I suggest you stay in the past. Where you belong. I'm not quite sure yet what kind of man I have become. I really don't recommend you push me. Otherwise you may find out."

La Neige found himself nodding to the back of Mycroft's head as the tall man walked casually from the room, Greg a little way in front of him. La Neige nodded and two of his acolytes ran after them. They were reduced to dust before they had taken three paces. Mycroft turned.

"No second chances. That's the kind of man I am. You understand?" Mycroft followed Greg out into the daylight.

"Master? How did he do that?" There was always someone stupid enough to ask the questions. La Neige half walked, half staggered to his chair, shaking his head.

"I don't know." La Neige whispered softly, fingering the dent in his face where Mycroft had hit him.


	28. Chapter 28

"What the hell was that?" John was looking from one pale face to another as they sat in the back of the car. Mycroft's car. That had suddenly appeared outside the disused warehouse with its underground crypt. It seemed no one was in the mood for talking. Sherlock stared at John, his pupils fixed, unblinking. Mycroft lounged across the back seat, staring at something unseen. And Greg was looking at Mycroft as though he was going to rip his trousers off right there and then.

"Can someone please tell me what is going on?" John tried again. It was almost as though he was the only person left alive... and then he thought of what Sherlock had said. About not being alive. He looked at Sherlock again, still and quiet. And then at Mycroft, who was absently running his fingers through Greg's hair whilst Greg nuzzled against him.

"Apologies Doctor Watson." Mycroft suddenly looked up. His eyes bright. Piercing John so he could feel his heart squeeze in his chest. "I assume you wish to know why Sherlock is no longer dead? And why we have all been lying to you these past months?"

"Well. Yes. That would be a start." John couldn't quite seem to find the rage he had previously been feeling. As though Mycroft was draining him of it all. Draining him.

"The answer is quite simple. Sherlock is now what you would call a vampire. As am I."

"What about him?" John pointed to Greg. Surely Greg wasn't. Surely Greg was normal. Greg was rubbing his hand along Mycroft's thigh.

"Gregory was the start of it all I'm afraid. I know it would be much easier to believe it was me. But he bit me. Not the other way round."

"And then who bit Sherlock?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because seeing one's younger brother die is bad enough. Without the knowledge that you will stay alive without him for all eternity. I'm afraid I couldn't bear to see him end. "

"Hang on. This is all some perverted posh boy joke isn't it? I've seen you out in the daylight. And I've seen you eating."

"We've all seen him eating John." Sherlock snapped out of his trance.

"I think it best if you don't say anything for a while Sherlock." Mycroft glared at his younger brother. "There are many things about this...condition... that do not conform to the folklore that surrounds it. I do not pretend to understand it all."

"And who was that guy back there?"

"That was Monsiuer La Neige. He is perhaps the oldest of our kind. Sadly though with age comes not only wisdom, but corruption. I suppose you could say he's the King of the Vampires."

"Everyone knows La Neige." Greg continued. "He shows up in all the history books if you look hard enough. He's seen everything and been everywhere."

"But he'd never seen anything like you?" John was addressing Mycroft. "And that thing you did. You didn't move. You just looked at them and they were dust. What are you? You're not like them."

"No he's not." Greg had slipped his hand into Mycroft's shirt.

"Gregory please."

"You said soon."

"I know, but at least wait until we get home."

"Wait for what?" John was almost afraid to ask.

"LeStrade wants Mycroft's blood. He needs it. Then they will probably have sex. They usually do."

"Oh." There wasn't a great deal John felt he could add to that.

"John?" Sherlock was inches away from his face. John hadn't seen him move. The Silver eyes were filled with remorse. "I'm sorry." John Watson found himself drawing closer to those hypnotic eyes, falling into them. Falling against Sherlock. He felt the teeth scrape on his neck.

"No Sherlock, please."

"I have to John." Sherlock bit down. Hard. And John felt his head swimming and his mind going dark. And all around him he could smell Chocolate.


	29. Chapter 29

When John woke up he was laying on clean sheets. The room was unfamiliar, tastefully decorated and sparsely furnished. A guest room? John shook his head, trying to remember. And then his hand flew to his throat. Opposite him, his reflection did the same in the mirror of the dresser. John scrambled across the tangle of bed linen to look closely at himself. Two faint scratches on his neck. That was all. He felt no different.

John assumed this was Mycroft's house from expensive but understated decor. He remembered being in the car and some crazy story about vampires. John laughed out loud. He must have passed out and that bit was just a dream. And then he heard a noise. It sounded as though it was coming from down the corridor, another room on the same floor. The unmistakable sound of two people engaged in vigorous sex.

Mycroft and Greg. Had to be. Obviously not all of it had been a dream. John could hear voices now. Low whispers punctuated by bedsprings and the thud of a bed banging against a wall. Strangled moans and small cries. John heard someone crying "Yes" repeatedly. "Harder"

And John suddenly remembered how angry he was. And that Sherlock was still alive. John marched down the corridor barefoot. Someone had removed his shoes and sock before putting him to bed. He listened for a moment, determining that the noise was happening in the room at the end of the corridor. And taking a deep breath John slammed the door open.

Mycroft Holmes was naked. And he was covered in blood. All down his chest and belly, sticking the hair together in little red spikes. Greg LeStrade was writhing on top of him, slowly being fucked into oblivion by the taller man. He was also covered in blood, but it dripped from his mouth and ran down his chin. Greg's cock pointed upwards, unattended and straining as Mycroft thrust upwards into him, his head back and eyes closed. Another thrust from Mycroft and Greg was unable to hold on any longer, his hand grasped at his cock and he worked his fist frantically on himself until the milky fluid spurted from the head. Mycroft continued to thrust until he cried out and then bit down on Greg's shoulder drawing more blood.

It took a few seconds for the blue eyes to clear. Mycroft's pupils were huge as he turned his head to look directly at John. Greg followed his lovers gaze and had the good grace to look embarrassed when he saw John standing there. Mycroft continued to stare at John, even as Greg climbed off of him, releasing his still hard cock with a wet sound. Mycroft stood up, his cock dripping with the remains of his own orgasm, and John was suddenly aware of how very different to his brother Mycroft actually was. How much bigger and stronger he seemed.

Sherlock always seemed somehow frail, brittle, like he was made of spun glass and silver and if you dropped him he would shatter into a thousand pieces. Sherlock was pale, his skin almost like mother of pearl in its iridescence. John had of course seen Sherlock naked on numerous occasion, regarding him with the detachment of a doctor, as was only proper. He was only vaguely aware of Sherlock's genitals, it was probably the one area he had never been required to stitch or apply antiseptic to in their acquaintance. Yes, he'd looked. But purely in a medical capacity. And in that same capacity, John had noticed the neat penis and testicles nestled shyly in the black curls of his pubic hair almost apologetically.

Mycroft was nothing like his brother. Covered in blood, he looked bulky and dangerous, his cock jutting Satyr like in front of him. Mycroft wasn't made of glass. He was made of ice. The kind that you can beat with a sledgehammer or cut with a chainsaw and it just looks at you and says "so what else have you got"

"Can we help you Doctor Watson?" The voice was not quite there. As though it was a recording being played back through the mouth of the body in front of him.

"I..." John struggled to find the words. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's safe."

"Where is he?" John was backing towards the door. He had the same irrational fear now that he'd known in Afghanistan. On those nights when the desert closed around them and seemed to swallow all the light. You knew that really there was nothing in the darkness but your own imaginings. But they could turn the slightest breeze into a banshee's cry and send hoards of brain-monsters loping towards you. That feeling. That. John swallowed.

"My brother has been restrained for his own safety." Mycroft paused. John could feel his legs slowly collapsing under him. "And yours."


	30. Chapter 30

"I don't want it." Sherlock arched off the bed, his veins standings out in terrible relief against paper white skin.

"Sherlock, don't be silly." Mycroft said it with the patience of a parent trying to get their child to eat their vegetables.

"Leave me alone. I hate you." Sherlock sobbed.

"Yes. I know. Now be sensible and drink." Mycroft held out the bottle. Like a baby's bottle, except that the contents was bright crimson. Sherlock clamped his mouth tightly shut, eyes flicking around the room, a wild animal caught in a trap and preparing to gnaw his leg off to escape.

"Get away from me!" One arm broke free of its restraint and slammed into the side of Mycroft's head. Mycroft didn't flinch, although there was a flicker of disappointment that crossed his eyes for a moment. He caught Sherlock's wrist before he hit him for a second time.

"Do as you're told Sherlock."

John Watson was unable to watch any longer. Unable to watch this torture. And he was scared of Mycroft Holmes now. The man he had once said didn't seem all that frightening had managed to make him more scared than he had probably ever been in his life. And he still wasn't sure why. But the tiny part of John that wasn't scared could see the plea for help in Sherlock's eyes.

"What's the matter with him?" John took a step into the room.

"He needs blood. And he's refusing to have any." It was amazing how quickly the macabre had become normal.

"Who's blood is it?"

"No idea. It comes from the bank."

"The bank? From the staff?"

"From the Blood Bank, John." Mycroft sounded wearily patient.

"Yes. Of course. The blood bank."

"Sherlock is under the impression he can ignore his need for blood in the same way he ignored his need for food. Sadly this is not the case. If he carries on like this then he'll go insane."

"Not ...a...monster. I won't drink it." Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth.

"Could we do a transfusion?" John had moved a little closer. "You wouldn't be drinking it then Sherlock, it would be a medical procedure."

"That might help with the physical symptoms, but it won't stop the hunger. And that's what drives you mad." Mycroft said it with a sad resignation.

"What about you? Are you hungry? All the time? You seem fine. Calm even."

"I think with me it's different. I have other things to satisfy me."

"Yeah. I heard. And saw." John looked faintly nauseated.

"Does it disgust you Doctor Watson? Does it offend your Alpha Male sensibilities?" Mycroft's eyes had flashed that dangerous bright shade of cobalt. Sherlock collapsed back onto the mattress, no longer pulling at his restraints.

"No...I mean...seriously I have no problem with it. It's just... well, it never even occurred to me that Greg might be...you know. I mean you were pretty obvious... other than the whole..." John made a vague gesture with his hands.

"Obvious?"

"All the manicures and eyebrow grooming and carefully folded handkerchiefs. Bit of a giveaway."

"I'll take your word for it." Mycroft seemed miffed. And that was just what John needed. The vampire in charge of the world was angry with him. And that was about as bad as it got without involving broken bones and death. And something else was niggling at the back of John's mind as well. Because he had noticed how nice Mycroft smelled. Sort of like when you first opened a tin of Quality Street at Christmas. And he'd never really noticed before just how broad Mycroft's shoulders were, or what a nice shade of red his hair was.

"Doctor Watson!" John looked up. He was standing an inch away from Mycroft looking him square in the chest.

"Erm..." John swallowed. "Sorry?"

"John." Sherlock croaked from the bed. He didn't even have the strength to lift his head from the pillow. "Please...not him..." His eyes went blank.

"What? Sherlock? What can we do to help him?"

"Very little if he won't drink. I don't think he will die, end, whatever you want to call it. I think it might be worse than that."

"Right." John paused for a moment, taking two steps back from the rather erotic scent of Holmes number one. "Do you think he'd drink from me?"


	31. Chapter 31

The room was quiet. And everything in it was still. Sherlock lay peacefully on the bed, eyes closed, his skin still pale but the veins no longer rising to the surface like barbed wire. Next to him, pale, sweat-sheened, but also asleep, John Watson. John's chest rose and fell uncertainly. On his chest, just above his left nipple, just below that terrible bullet scar, was a neat dressing covering up the most recent wound. The inch long cut that had opened the vein that Sherlock had drunk from. He would have carried on drinking. He would have drained John dry. But Mycroft had stopped him in time. That was what Mycroft did.

Mycroft was sitting with his eyes closed. Still. Almost but not quite asleep as Greg slipped in to the room. Greg ran his hands down Mycroft's chest, enjoying the feeling of his solid flesh through the material of his shirt. And enjoying the almost instant reaction that was visibly straining against the fly of Mycroft's jeans.

It had been more than a pleasant surprise. More like the cherry and flake on the top of the world's biggest ice cream when Greg had got an eyeful of Mycroft fully erect for the first time. Not that size was important. Of course not. In fact when the person in question had just been bitten and turned in to one of the un-dead it was possibly irrelevant to the point of hilarity. But even so.

Greg reached a hand down and popped the top button open. Mycroft sighed and leaned back in the chair but still didn't open his eyes. Greg smiled. He reached for the second button, feeling the tight front of Mycroft's jeans straining as their contents increased in size. He was just reaching for the third button when Mycroft grabbed his wrist and redirected his hand. Greg found himself inside the tight jeans, cupping Mycroft's warm, heavy balls.

They were warm. Very warm.

That was impossible.

"Mycroft?"

"Mmmm?" Mycroft pushed up into Greg's hand.

"Mycroft?"

"What?" he opened his eyes lazily, his gaze filled with lust.

"You're hot."

"So are you Detective Inspector. I want you on me right now!" Mycroft leaned forward and licked Greg's ear.

"No. I mean, you're warm." Greg removed his hand from Mycroft's jeans and slid it up inside his shirt. Mycroft's belly and chest were warm too.

"Oh. Isn't that impossible?"

"Yes."

Mycroft moved his hand up inside Greg's jumper.

"Funny thing is, you're warm too." A long finger flicked at Greg's right nipple making him squirm in Mycroft's lap.

"Is it safe to leave these two." Greg indicated the sleeping figures on the bed.

"I think so."

"Come on then. Let's find out how hot we can get." Greg pulled Mycroft from the chair.


	32. Chapter 32

When John woke he was starving hungry. Somewhere in the house and its maze of rooms, someone was frying bacon. It was dark outside. Sherlock was not in the room. Gone. The only trace of his ever having been there was the dent in the pillow and a solitary black hair. John felt his stomach cramp again and he got to his uncertain feet in order to pursue the smell of bacon.

When he found the kitchen he sincerely wished he'd stayed in bed.

Mycroft Holmes, shirt open, buttons ripped off and scattered everywhere was, and here John struggled for the mot juste before deciding that there probably wasn't one and settling for _Banging._ Mycroft was banging Greg. Greg who was sat on the edge of the worktop, his jeans and boxer shorts abandoned on the floor and his legs wrapped around Mycroft's waist. Mycroft still had his jeans partly on. Which was a good job, because if John had got an eyeful of Mycroft's pert arse clenching as he rammed into Greg, well John would have probably put both his own eyes out with a potato peeler.

Mycroft gave one almighty final thrust, growling with clenched teeth. Clenched fangs perhaps? Could you clench fangs? John shook his head. Clearing his slightly blurred sight in time to see a series of thick pearly ropes come surging out of Greg. John stood slack jawed, waiting. Not wanting to move or draw attention to himself. And at the same time wanting to run away. Far away. Greg, collapsed against the taller man's chest, ran a sensuous, searching tongue across Mycroft's nipples. And then he sank his teeth in. Mycroft threw his head back, his long pale neck completely exposed, the gingery stubble rasping against the top of Greg's head.

John had seen enough. More than enough. He cleared his throat. Two pair of bloodshot eyes swivelled towards him. Greg's dark brown eyes looked almost completely black, alien as they focussed on him. Mycroft's eyes were a startling contrast of piercing blue and deep crimson framed by his pale skin. In any other circumstance he would almost be beautiful.

Greg was obviously still coming down from whatever highs Mycroft had taken him to and barely registered John. Certainly he didn't act like a man who had been caught doing whatever it was this particular act of debauchery classed as. In the kitchen. On the work top. With another man. Or vampire. Or. John thought his head was probably going to explode very shortly as his brain tried to process and make sense of the new terminology.

"John." Mycroft's voice was low. Calm. Seductive even. And there was that smell. It kind of smelled like freshly made Bakewell Tarts. All jam and almonds and rich buttery pastry. John shook his head.

"Sorry. I...I was hungry." John felt his knees shaking.

"Not at all. I should have realised you would be." It was difficult to accept the silky courtesy in Mycroft's voice. Especially when he was still, from what John could see, very firmly inside Greg, and gently rutting against his buttocks.

"Er...yes..." John's mouth was dry, his legs were water and he was possessed by the strangest of urges to kiss Mycroft Holmes right on that sensuous, cruel, blood covered mouth. John's fight or flight mechanisms collapsed. So did he.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled out of Greg, cramming his still hard cock uncomfortably into his jeans. Greg slid off the counter, somewhat resentfully and retrieved his own abandoned clothing as Mycroft picked John Watson off the floor with no more effort than if John had been a child.

"We really are going to have to stop him doing that you know. Sherlock will get so upset if he realises what's going on."

"You can't help being the one everyone wants!" Greg ran his hand down Mycroft's chest, drawing a small moan out of him.

"Can you make some sandwiches? I'll put them by his bed for when he wakes up again. Oh and see if you can persuade Sherlock to stop sitting on the roof. He might listen to you Gregory." Mycroft flashed the briefest of smiles and slipped from the room.

Greg turned, looking at the mess they had made of the kitchen and thinking it might be an idea to clean up.


	33. Chapter 33

John was getting quite used to waking up in strange places with a pounding headache. He had a vague recollection of strong arms carrying him and a feeling of warm contentment. And something else. Something that was almost like being turned on. Almost.

But under it all was a feeling something was missing. Or something was wrong. There was a plate of sandwiches by the bed. Carefully made and placed on a tray with a glass of orange juice and a slice of chocolate cake. John found he was hungry. Remembered that was what he had been doing before and checked his watch. The watch was a military specification thing made of titanium. It had been a Christmas gift from Mycroft, the Christmas after he had met Sherlock. The dial glowed in the dim light of the room, a comforting silver grey colour. It was the same colour as Sherlock's eyes.

John blinked, focussing on the time. He had been asleep for two hours. Another two hours. It was just after three in the morning. John shuddered, he was chilly, despite being carefully covered over with a blanket. His chill, he suspected was not altogether to do with the room temperature.

It always came down to the blankets. He burrowed a little deeper into the soft folds of fabric. He tried to tell himself he was being childish. That a blanket didn't really afford any protection from the monsters. If you couldn't see them it didn't mean they couldn't see you. But still, he carefully made sure not so much as a toe was sticking out. And he was afraid to look under the bed.

Xx

"This can't go on Gregory." Mycroft was sitting in a high backed chair, his face cast into deep shadow in the flickering firelight.

"What can't? Not us?"

"Of course not us. Sherlock and John."

"Yeah, that's difficult."

"John will allow himself to be food. But that's not all Sherlock needs. Or all that he wants." Mycroft smiled sadly and reached for a sandwich (marmite and cheese).

"So what can we do?"

"It's funny that I spend most of my working life coming up with options for other people and faced with this I can only think of two."

"Which are?"

"Turn John and hope that he decides he wants to spend all eternity with Sherlock. Or kill Sherlock."

"Neither of those is very appealing."

"Any other ideas?" Gregory furrowed his brow. There was silence for a few minutes.

"I got nothing. This whole situation has gone way beyond my field of expertise."

"Not your division Greg?" Mycroft allowed himself a wry chuckle

"When you say it like that it sounds bad. I just...I never expected it to be like this...quite so complicated."

"Welcome to my world. What exactly were you expecting, just out of interest?" That was a tiny note of annoyance at the back of his voice.

"Not this. I just wanted it all to be perfect. To be simple."

"I don't think it was ever going to be simple. Why did you decide to bite me?"

"I...I had to." Because when he tried to think, there wasn't a reason. It was as though he had no free choice. Out loud it sounded pathetic.

"Thank you."

"Thank you? I've ruined your life. And your death. And probably Sherlock's and John's."

"Yes. But I'm sure that would have happened anyway. And it would have happened without love. I always used to think that love was pointless. A waste of brain space. Something that prevented more powerful processes from taking place. Thank you."

"Well..yeah..." Greg had a lump in his throat he was determined to conceal. "I do love you."

"I love you too." Mycroft put down his half eaten sandwich.

"Well isn't that lovely." Sherlock's sardonic voice spoke from the shadows. "You're going to be queen of the vampires once Mycroft's king, LeStrade."

"Yes and you will still be an annoying pain in the arse brother dear. Now are you going to behave like a grown up?"

"I might. Then again I might just go and walk naked through the streets."

"I'll let you!"

Sherlock realised Mycroft wasn't bluffing.

"Okay. What do you want to talk about?"


	34. Chapter 34

Mycroft sat by the fire. The gentle flickering setting one half of his face in shadow and the other in glowing relief. He was wearing a black jumper and jeans. Greg's jumper and jeans. It didn't matter. The jumper was comfortingly soft against his skin. It smelled of Greg.

The fire was just for comfort. The heat made no difference. But the light was reassuring. Something to focus on in the darkness. So was the glass of brandy. He could taste it of course. But he couldn't quite feel it.

He ignored the aching in his groin. Somewhere upstairs, Greg was asleep, aroused and giving off the warm sweet smell of freshly baked pastries. Mycroft could smell it. But that could wait. He had a more immediate problem. The problem he had always had. The reason he had never... Well the reason he'd never considered a relationship as a viable option.

Sherlock.

Sherlock always turned up needing his help. And he had never found any one who understood what that meant. Two sides of the same coin. The only person in the world who was like him. In many ways he was Mycroft's reflection. Mycroft had never quite worked out which one of them was the portrait in the attic. Unless they both were. Which was a distinct possibility.

But it was more than that. Sherlock was his responsibility. And by extension, so was John Watson.

John Watson. How did he fit into all of this? As Sherlock's friend? As his not quite lover? As his walking tuck-box?

"Mycroft?" John Watson stood in the doorway. He was wearing one of Mycroft's fluffy towelling dressing gowns, too big and too long for him. The effect would have been quite comical, but that nothing was particularly amusing anymore.

"Hello John." Mycroft sighed. "Do you want a brandy? No, sorry, it's Scotch isn't it?" Mycroft corrected himself and poured the whisky.

"Mycroft." John repeated as he sat in the chair opposite him. Sad. Eyes questioning. "I know, before, I said I wasn't frightened of you. Well. I'm proper scared now. Really."

"I know. If it helps, so am I."

"Not really." There was a moment of silence. "I got you all wrong. I thought you were selfish. That you interfered because you were jealous of Sherlock. Now I realise you do actually love him. In a weird, rather disturbing way. But you do love him. A lot."

"He's my little brother. Of course I do. I've known him for his whole life. He really does hate me. He always has done. Ours was not an easy childhood, as you can imagine. It rather seems nothing is supposed to be easy for us."

"I don't suppose this recent stuff has helped."

"If it wasn't this, it would be something else. I tried to talk to him earlier."

"And?"

"Talking isn't something that my brother and I do well. At least not with each other."

"Yeah. I had noticed. So. What? Did you decide what you're going to do with me? Because I really don't like being kept prisoner here."

"Prisoner?"

"Call it whatever you want. But I'm not free to go, am I? Now I'm sure you're going to say something about it being all for my own safety. And you're probably right. But I don't like it. I don't like hanging around here waiting. I don't like walking in to a room and finding you screwing Greg on every available surface. I know it's your house, but still, a bit of control wouldn't hurt. And I can't stand what it's doing to Sherlock. So. What are the options?"

"Sherlock has to die. I have to kill my brother. Or he spends the whole of eternity unhappy. Or..."

"Or what?"

"I think you know what."

"Yeah. I let one of you lovely boys bite me, make me like you, then...what? Sherlock and me live happily ever after. I would say we ride off into the sunset but I'm still not entirely sure how the daylight thing works with you lot. And then what? We become like you and Greg? I turn gay and it's all fine."

"Both Gregory and I were gay to begin with." Mycroft said it somewhat defensively.

"Okay. I will accept there are vampires. I will accept that Sherlock is one now. So are you. So's Greg. I will accept that there is a whole lot of underworld- otherworld stuff going on that is fairly extreme. But there is no way Greg was gay before you got hold of him."

"Oh for God's sake." Mycroft swallowed his brandy down and refilled his glass. And then the ridiculousness of it all hit him. He started to laugh. John had never heard never heard Mycroft laugh before and was struck by how much like Sherlock he sounded. And then John started to laugh as well.

He slid into the seat nearest to Mycroft.

"So, are you going to then?" John continued to laugh as Mycroft turned to look at him.

"Going to what?" John had leaned in very close.

"I think you know what, big fella." John was standing in front of him now. He pushed Mycroft back into the chair by his shoulders and took a deep breath. This was John taking a gamble. Spinning the gun barrel and pressing it to his temple. He'd guessed Mycroft wasn't on his A game. Even Mycroft Holmes couldn't concentrate properly with a stonking great erection like the one John had observed when he'd walked in to the room. Even through jeans it looked painful.

John straddled Mycroft's legs so he was standing right in front of him. He let the dressing gown fall open, revealing his bare torso and ran his hands from Mycroft's shoulders down the front of his chest. All the time those dangerous blue eyes watched him. Not blinking. At any moment Mycroft could snap his neck. John could feel the strength bubbling in the hard muscles under his palms. He leaned in further, bending his knees a little to sit on Mycroft's lap. Mycroft grunted as John's weight pushed down on his bulging groin.

John grabbed two fistfuls of the tight, soft jumper and pulled Mycroft close. So close he could have kissed him if he had so desired.

"John." Mycroft's voice was strained. "Get away from me. You don't know what you are doing."

"Yes I do." He hoped he did. Really. John took a deep breath and ran one hand down the front to Mycroft's crotch. He could feel the hard outline of his cock.

"John?" The eyes were dark now. No longer blue. Whatever it was inside, had almost reached the surface. Mycroft Holmes was no longer in control.

"Come on big boy! You know you want to. Ever since we met in that warehouse and you held my hand. Come on. Bite me!"


	35. Chapter 35

John finally knew what being afraid really was. It was this moment. The moment when you looked into the eyes of the most powerful man on the planet and knew that he wasn't actually seeing you. That you were nothing more than a snack to him. And John supposed he deserved it. After all it wasn't as if he'd not been warned.

John felt his skin prickling. Felt his blood humming around his ears. His throat was tight and his bowels felt loose. And all he could see. All he wanted to see, was Mycroft's eyes. The two sharp prongs pierced his neck, shredding the thick vein that was standing out against his pale skin. This was it. His blood was going. He could feel it. He was being emptied.

But under it all. Something else. John's groin was pushed hard against Mycroft's torso, grinding into the muscle and bone. He could feel Mycroft's erection pressing uncomfortably behind him. It was wrong. All of it. John tried to wriggle free, but found himself held firm by Mycroft's unnatural strength.

This is what he had asked for. He had a second to contemplate that. A second to regret ever annoying Mycroft. A second to try and choke the word sorry out of his ruined throat. Because he was sorry. Just a second. And then there was no more time.

Mycroft pushed the body off of him, drunk with the blood now surging through him, undoing the tight buttons of his jeans and closing his fist around his aching, dripping cock. He lay back in the chair and stroked himself slowly. John Watson tasted of bitter oranges and cinnamon. Not unpleasant. Mycroft felt his ejaculate pulsing up over his hand and smearing over his warm, full, belly. He felt his eyes closing.

"Mycroft have you seen..? Oh my God!" Greg's voice snapped him from his trance. "What did you do?"

Greg looked at the limp figure of John Watson, pale, small, his bathrobe open and his chest smeared with a trail of blood that reached down to the waistband of his boxer shorts.

"Mycroft?" Greg shook his shoulders. Mycroft looked at him with slightly unfocussed eyes.

"Gregory." His voice was quiet. Greg looked down at the mess spilling all over Mycroft and the chair.

"Mycroft. What did you do to John?"

"He asked me. He wanted it." Greg shuddered. He'd heard that defence before. Always from the mouths of the guilty.

"Mycroft. John's dead."

"We're all fucking dead!" Mycroft shouted. There was no way Sherlock hadn't heard that. Mycroft grabbed hold of Greg. By the throat. Lifting him clean off the floor. Greg thought he was going to kiss him. Only he didn't. He bit down hard on his neck. There was no way he could still be hungry. No way. Only he was.

"Mycroft. Stop."

"Stop what? This is what I am. This is what you made me." Mycroft pushed him away, Greg's blood mixing with John's on his lips.

"No. No I didn't." But a nasty little voice at the back of Greg's head was saying Oh yes you did.

"John?" Sherlock stood uncertainly in the doorway, looking at the scene beyond. Greg expected him to start shouting. To start being Sherlock. But he didn't. He just looked at his big brother like a fearful child, suddenly made aware that the monster in the cupboard was real.

"Mycroft?" Greg was trying to contemplate what new thing was happening now. What exactly was going on in that head. It was reasonable to suspect Mycroft was going mad. All that power, all that blood, all that intelligence. All surging through one poor bag of nerves and cells. His brain was probably melting, stripping away the finer processes to leave nothing but the animal beneath. But Greg couldn't let that happen. Not to John and Sherlock. And certainly not to Mycroft. "Mycroft? You need to sort John out."

The hand on the side of his face was cool. Pulling him down from the terrible black high he had found himself in. He was looking at Greg, fresh teeth marks down his neck. He was looking at John Watson, pale and unmoving. He was looking at Sherlock, abandoned. He was looking at himself, feeling bloated from a meal of blood he should not have eaten.

He knew he had done some terrible things in his time. Told himself it was always for the greater good. But it seemed that the lies and sacrifices were going to catch him up. And make him pay. Dearly.

He picked up John's limp body and looked at his brother.

"Sherlock?" He was asking permission.

"Yes. Yes, Mycroft, please." And that was worst of all. Sherlock never said please.


End file.
